Empress

Empress Karen Miller

“You wish to be a knife-dancer, Hekat of Et-Raklion?” Her blue gaze shifted to his knife-dancers and theirhota. “I wish to be a knife-dancer,” she answered him. “I wish to be a charioteer. I wish to shoot an arrow, sling a shot-stone, bury my spear-point in an enemy’s throat. I wish to be a warrior, warlord.” The calm declaration moved him. “And what are you now, Hekat of Et-Raklion?” Her lips pursed in disgust. “I am a killer of chickens, I slaughter sheep.” She was scarred, her beauty destroyed. That did not matter either, though he mourned its loss. Warriors had no need for beauty in the face, a warrior’s beauty was speed and strength, a lust for blood, the knack of survival. “Why should I grant your bold request, Hekat? Why should I make you a warrior of Et-Raklion?” She looked at him with those clear blue eyes, in their depths burned a fervent flame. “Because it is the will of the god, warlord. Hear it whisper in your heart. It whispers to you:make Hekat a warrior. ” Praise for Karen Miller: “Talk about making a splash debut!” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews(starred) onThe Innocent Mage “A perfect blend of magic and drama.” —The Fantasy ReviewonThe Awakened Mage Books by Karen Miller Kingmaker, Kingbreaker The Innocent Mage The Awakened Mage The Godspeaker Trilogy Empress The Riven Kingdom

Hammer of God For Dave Duncan, a scholar, a gentleman, and a damned fine writer. Thanks for all the fabulous reads —and lunch. Here’s to many more!

PART ONE CHAPTER ONE Despite its two burning lard-lamps the kitchen was dark, its air choked with the stink of rancid goat butter and spoiling goat-meat. Spiders festooned the corners with sickly webs, boarding the husks of flies and suck-you-dries. A mud-brick oven swallowed half the space between the door and the solitary window. There were three wooden shelves, one rickety wooden stool and a scarred wooden table, almost unheard of in this land whose trees had ages since turned to stone. Crouched in the shadows beneath the table, the child with no name listened to the man and the woman fight.

“But you promised,” the woman wailed. “You said I could keep this one.” The man’s hard fist pounded the timber above the child’s head. “That was before another poor harvest, slut, before two more village wells dried up! All the coin it costs to feed it, am I made of money? Don’t you complain, when it was born I could’ve thrown it on the rocks, I could’ve left it on The Anvil!” “But she can work, she—” “Not like a son!” His voice cracked like lightning, rolled like thunder round the small smoky room. “If you’d whelped me more sons—” “I tried!” “Not hard enough!” Another boom of fist on wood. “The she-brat goes. Only the god knows when Traders will come this way again.” The woman was sobbing, harsh little sounds like a dying goat. “But she’s so young.” “Young? Its blood-time is come. It can pay back what it’s cost me, like the other she-brats you spawned. This is my word, woman. Speak again and I’ll smash your teeth and black your eyes.” When the woman dared disobey him the child was so surprised she bit her fingers. She scarcely felt the small pain; her whole life was pain, vast like the barren wastes beyond the village’s godpost, and had been so since her first caterwauling cry. She was almost numb to it now. “Please,” the woman whispered. “Let me keep her. I’ve spawned you six sons.” “It should’ve been eleven!” Now the man sounded like one of his skin-and-bone dogs, slavering beasts who fought for scraps of offal in the stony yard behind their hovel. The child flinched. She hated those dogs almost as much as she hated the man. It was a bright flame, her hatred, hidden deep and safe from the man’s sight. He would kill her if he saw it, would take her by one skinny scabbed ankle and smash her headfirst into the nearest red and ochre rock. He’d done it to a dog once, that had dared to growl at him. The other dogs had lapped up its brains then fought over the bloody carcass all through the long unheated night. On her threadbare blanket beneath the kitchen table she’d fallen asleep to the sound of their teeth, and dreamed the bones they gnawed were her own. But dangerous or not she refused to abandon her hate, the only thing she owned. It comforted and nourished her, filling her ache-empty belly on the nights she didn’t eat because the woman’s legs were spread, or her labors were unfinished, or the man was drunk on cactus blood and beating her. He was beating her now, open-handed blows across the face, swearing and sweating, working himself to a frenzy. The woman knew better than to cry out. Listening to the man’s palm smack against the woman’s sunken cheeks, to his lusty breathing and her swallowed grunts, the child imagined plunging a knife into his throat. If she closed her eyes she could see the blood spurt scarlet, hear it splash on the floor as he gasped and bubbled and died. She was sure she could do it. Hadn’t she seen the men with their proud knives cut the throats of goats and even a horse, once, that had broken its leg and was no longer good for anything but meat and hide and bleached boiled bones? There were knives in a box on the kitchen’s lowest shelf. She felt her fingers curl and cramp as though

grasping a carved bone hilt, felt her heart rattle her ribs. The secret flame flickered, flared . . . then died. No good. He’d catch her before she killed him. She would not defeat the man today, or tomorrow, or even next fat godmoon. She was too small, and he was too strong. But one day, many fat godmoons from now, she’d be big and he’d be old and shrunken. Then she’d do it and throw his body to the dogs after and laugh and laugh as they gobbled his buttocks and poked their questing tongues through the empty eye sockets of his skull. One day. The man hit the woman again, so hard she fell to the pounded dirt floor. “You poisoned my seed five times and whelped bitches, slut. Three sons you whelped lived less than a godmoon. I should curse you! Turn you out for the godspeaker to deal with!” The woman was sobbing again, scarred arms crossed in front of her face. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” Listening, the child felt contempt. Where was the woman’s flame? Did she even have one? Weeping. Begging. Didn’t she know this was what the man wanted, to see her broken and bleating in the dirt? The woman should die first. But she wouldn’t. She was weak. All women were weak. Everywhere in the village the child saw it. Even the women who’d spawned only sons, who looked down on the ones who’d spawned she-brats as well, who helped the godspeaker stone the cursed witches whose bodies spewed forth nothing but female flesh . . . even those women were weak. I not weakthe child told herself fiercely as the man soaked the woman in venom and spite and the woman wept, believing him.I never beg . Now the man pressed his heel between the woman’s dugs and shoved her flat on her back. “You should pray thanks to the god. Another man would’ve broke your legs and turned you out seasons ago. Another man would’ve plowed two hands of living sons on a better bitch than you!” “Yes! Yes! I am fortunate! I am blessed!” the woman gabbled, rubbing at the bruised place on her chest. The man shucked his trousers. “Maybe. Maybe not. Spread, bitch. You give me a living son nine fat godmoons from now or I swear by the village godpost I’ll be rid of you onto The Anvil!” Choking, obedient, the woman hiked up her torn shift and let her thin thighs fall open. The child watched, unmoved, as the man plowed the woman’s furrow, grunting and sweating with his effort. He had a puny blade, and the woman’s soil was old and dusty. She wore her dog-tooth amulet round her neck but its power was long dead. The child did not think a son would come of this planting or any other. Nine fat godmoons from this day, or sooner, the woman would die. His seed at last dribbled out, the man stood and pulled up his trousers. “Traders’ll be here by highsun tomorrow. Might be seasons till more come. I paid the godspeaker to list us as selling and put a goat’s skull on the gate. Money won’t come back, so the she-brat goes. Use your water ration to clean it. Use one drop of mine. I’ll flay you. I’ll hang you with rope twisted from your own skin. Understand?” “Yes,” the woman whispered. She sounded tired and beaten. There was blood on the dirt between her legs.

“Where’s the she-brat now?” “Outside.” The man spat. He was always spitting. Wasting water. “Find it. When it’s clean, chain it to the wall so it don’t run like the last one.” The woman nodded. He’d broken her nose with his goat-stick that time. The child, three seasons younger then, had heard the woman’s splintering bone, watched the pouring blood. Remembering that, she remembered too what the man did to the other she-brat to make it sorry for running. Things that made the she-brat squeal but left no mark because Traders paid less for damaged goods. That she-brat had been a fool. No matter where the Traders took her it had to be better than the village and the man. Traders were the only escape for she-brats. Traders . . . or death. And she did not want to die. When they came for her before highsun tomorrow she would go with them willingly. “I’ll chain her,” the woman promised. “She won’t run.” “Better not,” growled the man, and then the slap of goathide on wood as he shoved the kitchen door aside and left. The woman rolled her head until her red-rimmed eyes found what they sought beneath the kitchen table. “I tried. I’m sorry.” The child crawled out of the shadows and shrugged. The woman was always sorry. But sorrow changed nothing, so what did it matter? “Traders coming,” she said. “Wash now.” Wincing, breath catching raw in her throat, the woman clutched at the table leg and clawed herself to her knees, then grabbed hold of the table edge, panting, whimpering, and staggered upright. There was water in her eyes. She reached out a work-knotted hand and touched rough fingertips to the child’s cheek. The water trembled, but did not fall. Then the woman turned on her heel and went out into the searing day. Not understanding, not caring, the child with no name followed. The Traders came a finger before highsun the next day. Not the four from last time, with tatty robes, skinny donkeys, half-starved purses and hardly any slaves. No. These two Traders were grand. Seated on haughty white camels, jangling with beads and bangles, dangling with earrings and sacred amulets, their dark skin shiny with fragrant oils and jeweled knife-sheaths on their belts. Behind them stretched the longest snake-spine of merchandise: men’s inferior sons, discarded, and she-brats, and women. All naked, all chained. Some born to slavery, others newly sold. The difference was in their godbraids, slaves of long standing bore one braid of deep blood red, a sign from the god that they were property. The new slaves would get their red braids, in time. Guarding the chained slaves, five tall men with swords and spears. Their godbraids bore amulets, even their slave-braids were charmed. They must be special slaves, those guards. In the caravan there were pack camels too, common brown, roped together, laden with baskets, criss-crossed with travel-charms. A sixth unchained slave led them, little more than a boy, and his red godbraid bore amulets as well. At his signal, groaning, the camels folded their calloused knees to squat on the hard ground. The slaves squatted too, silent and sweating.

Waiting in her own chains, the crude iron links heavy and chafing round her wrists and ankles, the child watched the Traders from beneath lowered lashes as they dismounted and stood in the dust and dirt of the man’s small holding. Their slender fingers smoothed shining silk robes, tucked their glossy beaded godbraids behind their ears. Their fingernails were all the same neat oval shape and painted bright colors to match their clothing: green and purple and crimson and gold. They were taller than the tallest man in the village. Taller than the godspeaker, who must stand above all. One of them was evenfat . They were the most splendid creatures the child had ever seen, and knowing she would leave with them, leave forever the squalor and misery of the man and the village, her heart beat faster and her own unpainted fingernails, ragged and shapeless, bit deep into her dirty scarred palms. The Traders stared at the cracked bare ground with its withered straggle of weeds, at the mud brick hovel with its roof of dried grasses badly woven, at the pen of profitless goats, at the man whose bloodshot eyes shone with hope and avarice. A look flowed between them and their plump lips pursed. They were sneering. The child wondered where they came from, to be so clean and disapproving. Somewhere not like this. She couldn’t wait to see such a place herself, to sleep for just one night inside walls that did not stink of fear and goat. She’d wear a hundred chains and crawl on her hands and knees across The Anvil’s burning sand if she had to, so long as she reached it. The man was staring at the Traders too, his eyes popping with amazement. He bobbed his head at them, like a chicken pecking corn. “Excellencies. Welcome, welcome. Thank you for your custom.” The thin Trader wore thick gold earrings; tattooed on his right cheek, in brightest scarlet, a stinging scorpion. The child bit her tongue. He had money enough to buy a protection like that? And power enough that a godspeaker would let him?Aieee . . . He stepped forward and looked down at the man, fingertips flicking at her. “Just this?” She was enchanted. His voice was deep and dark like the dead of night, and shaped the words differently from the man. When the man spoke it sounded like rocks grinding in the dry ravine, ugly like him. The Trader was not ugly. The man nodded. “Just this.” “No sons, un-needed?” “Apologies, Excellency,” said the man. “The god has granted me few sons. I need them all.” Frowning, the Trader circled the child in slow, measured steps. She held her breath. If he found her unpleasing and if the man did not kill her because of it, she’d be slaved to some village man for beating and spawning sons and hard labor without rest. She would cut her flesh with stone and let the dogs taste her, tear her, devour her, first. The Trader reached out his hand, his flat palm soft and pink, and smoothed it down her thigh, across her buttock. His touch was warm, and heavy. He glanced at the man. “How old?” “Sixteen.” The Trader stopped pacing. His companion unhooked a camel whip from his belt of linked precious stones and snapped the thong. The man’s dogs, caged for safety, howled and threw themselves against the woven goathide straps of their prison. In the pen beside them the man’s goats bleated and milled,

dropping anxious balls of shit, yellow slot-eyes gleaming. “How old?” the Trader asked again. His green eyes were narrow, and cold. The man cringed, head lowered, fingers knuckled together. “Twelve. Forgive me. Honest error.” The Trader made a small, disbelieving sound. He’d done something to his eyebrows. Instead of being a thick tangled bar like the man’s they arched above his eyes in two solid gold half-circles. The child stared at them, fascinated, as the Trader leaned down and brought his dark face close to hers. She wanted to stroke the scarlet scorpion inked into his cheek. Steal some of his protection, in case he did not buy her. His long, slender fingers tugged on her earlobes, traced the shape of her skull, her nose, her cheeks, pushed back her lips and felt all her teeth. He tasted of salt and things she did not know. He smelled like freedom. “Is she blooded?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the man. “Since four godmoons.” “Intact?” The man nodded. “Of course.” The Trader’s lip curled. “There is no ‘of course’ where men and she-flesh abide.” Without warning he plunged his hand between her legs, fingers pushing, probing, higher up, deeper in. Teeth bared, her own fingers like little claws, the child flew at him, screeching. Her chains might have weighed no more than the bangles on his slender, elegant wrists. The man sprang forward shouting, fists raised, face contorted, but the Trader did not need him. He brushed her aside as though she were a corn-moth. Seizing a handful of black and tangled hair he wrenched her to the tips of her toes till she was screaming in pain, not fury, and her hands fell limply by her sides. She felt her heart batter her brittle ribs and despair storm in her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut and for the first time she could remember felt the salty sting of tears. She had ruined everything. There would be no escape from the village now, no new life beyond the knife-edged horizon. The Trader would toss her aside like spoiled meat, and when he and his fat friend were gone the man would kill her or she would be forced to kill herself. Panting like a goat in the slaughter-house she waited for the blow to fall. But the Trader was laughing. Still holding her, he turned to his friend. “What a little hell-cat! Untamed and savage, like all these dwellers in the savage north. But do you see the eyes, Yagji? The face? The length of bone and the sleekness of flank? Her sweet breasts, budding?” Trembling, she dared to look at him. Dared to hope . . . The fat one wasn’t laughing. He shook his head, setting the ivory dangles in his ears to swinging. “She is scrawny.” “Today, yes,” agreed the Trader. “But with food and bathing and three times three godmoons . . . then we shall see!”

“Your eyes see the invisible, Aba. Scrawny brats are oft diseased.” “No, Excellency!” the man protested. “No disease. No pus, no bloating, no worms. Good flesh. Healthy flesh.” “What there is of it,” said the Trader. He turned. “She is not diseased, Yagji.” “But she is ill-tempered,” his fat friend argued. “Undisciplined, and wild. She’ll be troublesome, Aba.” The Trader nodded. “True.” He held out his hand and easily caught the camel whip tossed to him. Fingers tight in her hair he snapped the woven hide quirt around her naked legs so the little metal weights on its end printed bloody patterns in her flesh. The blows stung like fire. The child sank her teeth into her lip and stared unblinking into the Trader’s careful, watching eyes, daring him to strip the unfed flesh from her bones if he liked. He would see she was no weakling, that she was worthy of his coin. Hot blood dripped down her calf to tickle her ankle. Within seconds the small black desert flies came buzzing to drink her. Hearing them, the Trader withheld the next blow and instead tossed the camel whip back to its owner. “Lesson one, little hell-cat,” he said, his fingers untangling from her hair to stroke the sharp line of her cheek. “Raise your hand or voice to me again and you will die never knowing the pleasures that await you. Do you understand me?” The black desert flies were greedy, their eager sucking made her skin crawl. She’d seen what they could do to living creatures if not discouraged. She tried not to dance on the spot as the feverish flies quarreled over her bloody welts. All she understood was the Trader did not mean to reject her. “Yes.” “Good.” He waved the flies away, then pulled from his gold and purple pocket a tiny pottery jar. When he took off its lid she smelled the ointment inside, thick and rich and strange. Startling her, he dropped to one knee and smeared her burning legs with the jar’s fragrant paste. His fingers were cool and sure against her sun-seared skin. The pain vanished, and she was shocked. She hadn’t known a man could touch a she-brat and not hurt it. It made her wonder what else she did not know. When he was finished he pocketed the jar and stood, staring down at her. “Do you have a name?” A stupid question. She-brats were owed no names, no more than the stones on the ground or the dead goats in the slaughter-house waiting to be skinned. She opened her mouth to say so, then closed it again. The Trader was almost smiling, and there was a look in his eyes she’d never seen before. A question. Or a challenge. It meant something. She was sure it meant something. If only she could work out what . . . She let her gaze slide sideways to the mud brick hovel and its mean kitchen window, where the woman thought she could not be seen as she dangerously watched the trading. The woman who had no name, just descriptions.Bitch. Slut. Goatslit . Then she looked at the man, shaking with greed, waiting for his money. If she gaveherself a name, how angry it would make him. But she couldn’t think of one. Her mind was blank sand, like The Anvil. Who was she? She had no idea. But the Trader had named her, hadn’t he? He had called her something, he had called her—

She tilted her chin so she could look into his green and gleaming eyes. “He—kat,” she said, her tongue stumbling over the strange word, the sing-song way he spoke. “Me. Name. Hekat.” The Trader laughed again. “As good a name as any, and better than most.” He held up his hand, two fingers raised; his fat friend tossed him a red leather pouch, clinking with coin. The man stepped forward, black eyes ravenous. “If you like the brat so much I will breed you more! Better than this one, worth twice as much coin.” The Trader snorted. “It is a miracle you bred even this one. Do not tempt the god with your blustering lest your seed dry up completely.” Nostrils pinched, he dropped the pouch into the man’s cupped hands. The man’s fingers tore at the pouch’s tied lacing, so clumsily that its contents spilled on the ground. With a cry of anguish he plunged to his knees, heedless of bruises, and began scrabbling for the silver coins. His knuckles skinned against the sharp stones but the man did not notice the blood, or the buzzing black flies that swarmed to drink him. For a moment the Trader watched him, unspeaking. Then he trod the man’s fingers into the dirt. “Your silver has no wings. Remove the child’s chains.” The man gaped, face screwed up in pain. “Remove . . . ?” The Trader smiled; it made his scarlet scorpion flex its claws. “You are deaf? Or would like to be?” “Excellency?” The Trader’s left hand settled on the long knife at his side. “Headless men cannot hear.” The man wrenched his fingers free and lurched to his feet. Panting, he unlocked the binding chains, not looking at the child. The skin around his eyes twitched as though he were scorpion-stung. “Come, little Hekat,” said the Trader. “You belong to me now.” She followed him to the waiting slave train, thinking he would put his own chains about her wrists and ankles and join her to the other naked slaves squatting on the ground. Instead he led her to his camel and turned to his friend. “A robe, Yagji.” The fat Trader Yagji sighed and fetched a pale yellow garment from one of the pack camel’s baskets. Barely breathing, the child stared as the thin Trader took his knife and slashed through the cloth, reducing it to fit her small body. Smiling, he dropped the cut-down robe over her head and guided her arms into its shortened sleeves, smoothed its cool folds over her naked skin. She was astonished. She wished the man’s sons were here to see this but they were away at work. Snake-dancing, and tending goats. “There,” said the Trader. “Now we will ride.” Before she could speak he was lifting her up and onto the camel. Air hissed between the fat Trader’s teeth. “Ten silver pieces! Did you have to give so much?” “To give less would be insulting to the god.”

“Tcha! This is madness, Abajai! You will regret this, and so will I!” “I do not think so, Yagji,” the thin Trader replied. “We were guided here by the god. The god will see us safe.” He climbed onto the camel and prodded it to standing. With a muffled curse, the fat Trader climbed onto his own camel and the slave train moved on, leaving the man and the woman and the goats and the dogs behind them. Hekat sat on the Trader’s haughty white camel, her head held high, and never once looked back. CHAPTER TWO As the village and its splintered, weathered wooden godpost dwindled into the heat-hazed distance behind them the thin Trader Abajai said, his hand warm and secure on Hekat’s shoulder, “The others we purchased. Do you know them?” He and fat Yagji had bought four more villagers after leaving the man’s holding. A woman, another she-brat and two boys. Unlike her, they walked with the rest of the slaves, chained to them and to each other, guarded by the five tall slaves with spears. Sitting before Abajai on his white camel, with its coarse hair tickling her bare legs, she shook her head. “No. Hekat knows man. Woman. Man’s sons.” A shiver rippled over her skin. “Godspeaker.” “No-one else? You had no friends?” said Abajai. “Who will you weep for tonight, Hekat?” She shrugged. “Hekat not weep.” Riding beside them. Yagji sighed. “Must you talk to it, Aba? It’s not a pet.” Abajai chuckled. “I’ve heard you talk to your monkey.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Monkey?” “An animal. Smelly, noisy, greedy.” He smiled. “Yagji will introduce you when we reach Et-Raklion.” “I won’t,” said Yagji. “She will teach little Hooli bad manners. Abajai, you should sell this one before we get home.” A red stone carved into a single staring eye dangled on a chain around his neck; he clutched it with plump fingers. “There is a darkness . . .” “Superstition,” Abajai grunted. “The god desired us to find this one, Yagji. You worry for nothing. We will reach Et-Raklion.” Hekat frowned. “Et-Raklion?” “Our home.” “Where?” Abajai pointed ahead, to where the ground met the sky. “Further than your eye can see, Hekat. Many godmoons traveling beyond the horizon.”

She shook her head. That place was so far away she couldn’t imagine it. Already she was lost. The barren land stretched on every side, dressed in all its hot colors: red, orange, ochre, brown. Spindle grass withered beneath the uncovered sun, dull purple, dying green. The sky was a heavy palm pressing her flat towards the slow-baked ground. Beneath the padding of camel-feet, the clanking of slave-chains, the clicking of rock against pebble, silence waited like a sandcat poised to smother and kill. If she wasn’t careful, she’d forget how to breathe. Abajai’s hand returned to her shoulder. “Fear not, Hekat. You are safe with me.” “Safe?” Beside them, Yagji tittered. “He may be a monkey but at least my little Hooli understands more than one word in five!” Abajai ignored him. “Yes, Hekat. Safe. That means I will protect you.” His fingers had tightened a little, and his voice was gentle. The wonder of that was as crushing as the sky. “No hurting. No hunger. Safe.” She became one with the silence. In the village no she-brat was safe. Not from the man, or his sons, or the godspeaker who stalked the streets like a vulture, always looking for sin to stone. “Safe,” she whispered at last. The white camel flicked its ear at her, grumbling softly as it walked. She looked back at the Trader. “Safe Et-Raklion?” He smiled widely at her, teeth blinding. Tiny gemstones sparkled, blue and red and green. She gasped, and touched her own teeth in amazement. She had not noticed his gemstones in the village. Abajai laughed. “You like them?” She nodded. “You wish for some of your own?” Fat Yagji moaned like a woman. “Aba, I beg you! Protections in your teeth is one thing. It’s proper. But inher mouth? Thewaste !” “Perhaps,” said Abajai, shrugging. “But I will buy her an amulet in Todorok. Other eyes are not blind, Yagji. They will see what you cannot.” “Yes, yes, they’ll see,” grumbled the fat Trader, like a camel. “They’ll see you’re godforsaken!” Laughing, Abajai waved away an obstinate fly. “With this prize? Yagji, kiss your eye for blasphemy.” Yagji didn’t kiss his red stone eye, but he touched it again. “You tempt the god to smiting, Aba. Boast less. Pray more.” Hekat sighed. Words, words, buzz buzz buzz. “Abajai.” He’d said she could use his name. “Tell Hekat Et-Raklion.” “Don’t,” said Yagji. “She will see it soon enough.” “She can barely utter a civilized sentence, Yagji,” said Abajai. “If I do not speak with her how will she learn?” He patted her shoulder. “Et-Raklion is a mighty city, Hekat.” “City?” He held his arms wide. “A big, big,big village. You know big?”

She nodded. “Yes. Big not village. Hekat village small.” His sparkly teeth flashed again. “She is not stupid, Yagji. Underfed, yes, and starved of learning. But in no way is she stupid.” Yagji threw up his hands. “And this is good, Aba? Intelligent slaves are good? Aieee! May the god protect us!” The talking stopped then. In silence they traveled away from the sliding sun, chased the long thin shadows it cast down the red rock ground before them. Abajai was like the god, he knew where to ride even though the land was empty. Hekat felt her eyes drift closed, her head nod like a wilting weed on its stem. Abajai’s hand rested on her shoulder. She would not fall. She was safe. She slept. When he shook her awake the blue sky had faded. It was dusk, and little pricky stars sparkled like the gemstones in his teeth. The godmoon and his wife were risen, small silver discs against the deepening dark. The white camels lifted their heads, snuffling, then slowed, stopped and settled on the ground. “This will do,” said Abajai, sliding from his saddle. “Stake the slaves out, Obid,” he ordered the oldest and tallest of the guards. “Food and water.” “How much, master?” said Obid. “That village was poor. Supplies are low and no hunting here.” Abajai looked around them at the sun-killed plain. “A fist of grain, a cup of water, night and dawn till my word changes. In twenty highsuns we’ll reach Todorok village and trade for fresh supplies. What we have will last until then.” Hekat felt her eyes go wide.Twenty highsuns? So far away! Had any man in the village ever traveled so far? She did not think so. While Obid and the other guards settled the slaves and camels for the night, Abajai and Yagji unpacked baskets and sacks. She watched for a moment, aware of a growing discomfort. She jiggled, looking around. There was nothing to squat behind. Yagji noticed. He stopped unpacking and tugged at Abajai’s sleeve. “Hekat?” said Abajai. “Need lose water.” “Pish, you mean?” Did she? Guessing, she nodded. “Need lose waternow .” He went to his white camel, opened one of its carry baskets and pulled out a small clay pot. “Pish into this and give it to Obid.” To Obid? She stared. “Obid want body water?” “I want it.” When he saw she still didn’t understand, he said, “Your village. Do the people keep body water?”

“For goat leather. No goats, Abajai.” “No, but we turn our body water into coin when other villages need more. Pish now, Hekat. We must make camp.” So she pished, and gave the sloshing pot to Obid. He did not speak to her, just poured her water into a big clay jar unstrapped from the sturdiest pack camel. As she walked away she felt the chained slaves’ gazes sliding sideways over her skin, wondering and jealous. Let them wonder. Let them hate. She did not care for them. After pishing, tired and sore from camel-riding, she yawned cross-legged on the blanket Abajai gave her, amazed as the Traders produced rolls of colored cloth from the pack camels’ baskets and turned them into little rooms. “Tents,” said Abajai, seeing her surprise. “You will sleep in mine.” There was food in the white camels’ baskets, better than the slaves were eating. Better than any food she’d smelled in her life. Yagji made a fire with bricks of dried camel-dung and warmed the food in an iron pot over the flames, adding leaves she didn’t recognize. He kept them in little shiny boxes and talked to himself as he pinched some from this one, some from that. Yagji was strange. As the food slowly heated, releasing such smells, her belly turned over and over and she almost choked on the juices flooding her mouth. “Don’t snatch,” said Abajai as he handed her a pottery bowl filled halfway, and a spoon. His knuckles rapped hard on her head. “Dignity. Restraint. Conduct. You must learn these things.” She didn’t know those words. All she knew was she’d displeased him. For the second time that day salty water stung her eyes. “Tchut tchut tchut,” he soothed her, no knuckles now, just a gentle pat to her cheek. “Eat. Slowly. I will fetch you drink. You know sadsa?” Mouth stuffed full of meat, aieee, so wonderful, she shook her head, watching as he took an empty bronze cup and filled it from a leather flask. Yagji nodded. “Good idea,” he said. “If you insist on having it in your tent, best it be well fuddled.” Abajai shook his head. “Hekat is no danger.” “You say.” “The god says,” Abajai replied, frowning. Yagji put down his own bowl and rummaged through the leather bag that held his little boxes of leaves. “Best be safe than sorry,” he said, tossing him a small yellow pouch. Abajai rolled his eyes, but he took some blue powder from the pouch, dropped it in the bronze cup and swirled. Then he tossed the pouch back to Yagji and gave her the cup. “Sadsa, Hekat. Drink.” No man had ever served her before. Women served men, that was the way. Almost dreamy, she lifted the bronze cup to her nose. Sadsa was creamy white, and its sharp, sweet-sour smell tickled. There were

tiny flecks of blue caught in its frothy surface. She looked at Yagji, not trusting him. “What?” “Sadsa is camel’s milk,” said Abajai. “Good for you.” He didn’t understand, so she pointed at the yellow pouch still caught in Yagji’s fingers. “What?” Abajai laughed. “I told you, Yagji. Not stupid.” Bending, he patted her cheek again. “For sleeping, Hekat. It will not harm you. Drink.” He had saved her from the man. He did not chain her naked with the slaves, he clothed her and let her ride before him on his fine white camel. She drank. The sadsa flowed down her throat and into her belly like soft fire. She gasped, choking. The dancing flames blurred. So did Yagji’s face, and Abajai’s. She put down the bronze cup and ate more meat. Her fingers felt clumsy, wrapped around the spoon. Too soon the bowl was empty. Hopefully, she looked at Abajai. “No,” he said. “Your belly’s had enough surprise. Finish your sadsa, then you must sleep.” By the time the cup was empty she could barely keep her eyes open. It slipped from her silly fat fingers to the ground, and rolled in little circles that made her laugh. Laughing made her laugh. What a stupid sound! The man didn’t like it, he’d hit her when she laughed. Laughing was for secret. For almost never. But Abajai wasn’t angry. He was smiling, his green eyes mysterious, and in the leaping firelight the jewels in his teeth were precious. The scarlet scorpion sat quietly in his skin, keeping him safe. She tried to stand but her legs had turned to grass. She lay on her back instead, staring at the pricky stars, and laughed even harder. “Oh, put it to bed, Aba,” said Yagji crossly. “If this is what we’ve got to look forward to on the long road to Et-Raklion I doubt you and I will be speaking by the end.” “Et-Raklion,” she sang to the godmoon and his wife. “Hekat go Et-Raklion. La la la la . . .” Strong arms slid beneath her shoulders and her knees. Abajai lifted her as the god’s breath lifted dust. “See how the god smiles, Yagji?” he said. “She has a sweet song voice to match her face.” Yagji said something she couldn’t understand, but it sounded rude. His upside-down face wore a rude look. Dangling backwards over Abajai’s arm, she pointed at it. “Funny Yagji make goat talk.Meh meh meh .” Abajai lay her inside his tent on something soft and warm like a cloud of sunshine, and covered her in a blanket that didn’t scratch her skin. “Sleep, Hekat,” he said. “Abajai,” she sighed, and felt her lips curve as she fell headfirst into the warm dark. “Abajai.” She woke in daylight from a bad dream about the man’s dogs, needing to lose water so badly her belly was cramping. Abajai snored, a long still shape beneath his striped wool blankets. Heart pounding from the dream she fumbled the tent-flap open and stumbled outside, where Obid and the other guards walked up and down the snake-spine of slaves, taking away their dirty wool blankets, making sure none had died in the night. They carried pots, and one by one the slaves squatted over them, losing water. Making coin for Abajai.

There was no time to ask for a pot of her own, hot trickles were tickling her thighs, so she moved away from the tent, hiked up the yellow robe Abajai had given her and let her own water flow. Obid saw her. Shoving the pot he carried at another guard he loped towards her, arms waving, lips peeled back over teeth like knife points, all stained red. She staggered backwards, fingers clawed. “Abajai!” He came out of the tent as Obid reached her with his hand swinging to smack her face. “Obid!” he shouted. “Hunta!” Obid dropped to his knees like an axed goat, and pressed his forehead to the dirt. “Master.” Abajai wore a dark green robe and carried a club with a knot on one end and plaited thongs at the other. He tossed it in the air, caught it again just above the knot and brought the thongs down hard across Obid’s bowed shoulders. Obid was wearing nothing but his loincloth. His light brown skin welted at once and he whimpered. Four more times Abajai struck him. Obid’s fingers spasmed, but he didn’t cry out. “Stand,” said Abajai. He sounded calm, but stern. “See this one?” Standing again, Obid looked at her. “Master.” “This one may not be touched without my nod.” Obid struggled for words. “Master, this one spilled its water on the ground.” “Ah.” Abajai dropped to a crouch before her, the scarlet scorpion flexing its claws as he grimaced. “What did I tell you, Hekat?” “Use pot.” “If you don’t use a pot, you waste your water. That is the same as stealing my coin. You understand?” She felt the cool newsun air catch in her throat. The godspeaker saved his second-sharpest rocks for stealers. “No steal, Abajai,” she said jerkily. “No time for pot. Need pishnow .” Abajai sighed. Behind him, Obid’s face was flat as stone. Only his pale blue eyes were alive, they were full of questions. “Hekat, you are precious. But if you close your ears to my word again I will give Obid my nod and he will beat you. Just like you were one of the slaves he guards. You understand?” Hekat, you are precious. The words burst inside her like a rain cloud, rare and hardly looked for. She nodded, drenched with pleasure. “Yes, Abajai. Water in pot.” His lips twitched. “Allmy words must be obeyed, Hekat. You understand?” “Yes, Abajai.” Supple as a snake, he rose to his feet. “Good. Obid?” Obid stepped forward. “Master.” Abajai rested a fingertip on her head. “Unless you receive my nod, this one is hidden from you.”

Now the questions in Obid’s eyes writhed like maggots in old meat. “Yes, master.” “Go back to your business. We leave soon.” Obid bowed. “Master.” She watched Obid lope back to the slave line, where his fellow guards pretended not to watch. “Obid not like Hekat.” Abajai looked down at her, faintly smiling. “Does Hekat care?” She grinned. “No. Hekat not care.” “Good,” he said. “It is foolish to care for the feelings of a slave. Now come.” She returned with him to their camp, where Yagji was brewing tea and cooking corncakes in a pan. He was dressed in a white robe shot through with gold threads. All his godbraids were gathered in a tail at the base of his neck and he’d taken off his red stone eye. Now a green coiled snake dangled round his neck. The stone it was carved from was shiny, she’d never seen anything like it before. “More trouble, Aba?” he said sourly as she settled on a blanket and watched Abajai portion out food and drink for two. “No,” said Abajai, handing her a plate and cup. Then he picked up a jug and held it over her corncakes. “Honey?” “What honey?” “Whatis honey,” he corrected. “You must learn proper Mijaki, Hekat. Fluent, pleasing speech. Not this cobbled-together grunting of yours.” “What Mijaki?” “Whatis Mijaki. It is the tongue of our people. We are Mijaki. This land is Mijak, gift of the god.” When she looked at him, not understanding, he shook his head. “He never taught you that much, your father?” Father. He meant the man? She shrugged. “She-brats like goats. Who want teach goats?” “Only godforsaken fools,” muttered Yagji. Abajai shot him a dark look. “What of your mother?” She sniggered. “Woman not teach. Man beat woman if she talk she-brats.” She sipped from the cup carefully, not sadsa this time, but tea. It was cool enough to drink. She gulped, suddenly thirsty. “Woman try. Talk a little, when man gone.” “Did anybody else talk to you?” “Sometimes.” She shrugged. “Man not like. But Hekat listen to man. To man’s boys. To men visit man. Hekat learn words. Learn counting.”

Abajai smiled. “Clever Hekat.” He lifted the jug again. “Honey is sweet. You know sweet?” She shook her head, staring as Abajai poured a sticky gold stream onto her corncakes. “Eat,” he said, still smiling. “Use your fingers.” “I thought you wanted it civilized,” protested Yagji. “That will come,” said Abajai, as she put down the cup and balanced the plate more firmly in her lap. “For now let her touch the world with her fingers. Let it become real. Something to be embraced, not feared. If she is to make my fortune, she—” “Ourfortune,” said Yagji, and pointed at her plate. “You heard Aba, monkey. Eat! If you don’t eat there’ll be no meat on your bones and the good coin we paid for you will have been wasted!” More goat words from Yagji. She would listen to Abajai. She folded a corncake in half and shoved it into her mouth. Her eyes popped as the sticky goldhoney melted on her tongue.This was sweet? This—this— Abajai and Yagji were laughing at her. “So? You like honey, Hekat?” said Abajai. She chewed. Swallowed. Looked down at the other honey-soaked corncakes. Cold now, but she didn’t care about that. “Hekat like.” “You should say thank you,” said Yagji, sniffing. “Only savages and monkeys have no manners. Say: Thank you, Yagji and Abajai.” Her tongue yearned for more sweet. “Thank you, Abajai and Yagji.” She smiled, for Abajai alone. “Thank you for honey.” Abajai patted her cheek. “You are welcome, Hekat. Now eat. The sun flies up. We must go.” As she obeyed his word, stuffing sweet corncakes into her mouth, Yagji took the honey jar from Abajai and poured it over his own food. “Educate it if you must, Aba, but do refrain from fondling. As slaves go it might be quick-witted but your pet does not understand as much as you think.” Abajai laughed, and drank his tea. After breakfast they climbed onto the white camels and the caravan continued, traveling slowly but steadily beneath the hot blue sky. Every highsun Abajai taught Hekat proper Mijaki speech, and Yagji grumbled. Soon after newsun on the sixteenth day the land changed from flat to uneven, with ravines and steep hillsides. Four fingers after the nineteenth highsun they reached a road that twisted and turned like a snake, then plunged downward over a sharp jutting edge. Tall spindly trees with whippy branches crowded close on either side, flogging their faces and arms and legs. The camels complained with every step, and Abajai tightened his arm around Hekat’s middle, leaning back, as they shuffled to the bottom. She gasped when they reached it. Here wasgreen land spread before them! Thick grass wherever she looked, and more flowering bushes than ever grew in the village. Springs of water, bursting from underground. Aieee! She wished they could stop, she wanted to touch the bubbling water, to run with bare feet in all the growing grass, but lowsun was casting its long thin shadows. They would have to camp soon. Yagji was asleep already, trusting his camel to keep pace with Abajai.

Abajai woke him. “We have reached the lands of Jokriel warlord, Yagji. The savage north is left behind.” Grunting, snuffling, Yagji straightened from his sleeping slouch. “At last. I never wish to travel there again, Aba. Make a note.” “We travel where the god desires,” said Abajai. “Now let us do our duty to the godpost, then seek a pleasant place to camp.” There was a godpost, Hekat saw, a little further along the road. Tall and grim and scorpion-carved, with a white stone crow at its top. No godbowl for offerings at its base, but a craggy lump of blue crystal. Abajai and Yagji halted their camels and the slave train, and Hekat watched as Abajai went to the godpost, took two small carved cylinders from his robe’s pocket and pressed them to the unremarkable stone. Bright light flared, brief as a falling star. Surprised, she looked at Yagji. “The warlord guards the borders of his lands,” said Yagji. “Traders travel wherever they please, but still we must announce our presence and prove we have paid our road-right taxes.” She did not know what a warlord was, or understand what Yagji meant or how Abajai had made the light flare from the stone. “Tchut tchut,” Yagji said, impatient with her not knowing. “Let Aba explain if he wishes. I couldn’t care less what you know and what you do not.” But Abajai wasn’t interested in talking of stones and warlords when he returned to his camel. He only cared for making camp. As they rode on, looking for the best place to spend the night, she saw small grey animals with long ears in the grass on either side of them. Abajai gave his word and Obid killed the bounding creatures with a slingshot. Every time he stuffed a limp body into the sack slung over his shoulder he flashed Abajai a broad smile. “Rabbits,” said Abajai, seeing her confusion. “You do not know rabbits?” She shook her head. “No rabbits village.” “You are far from your village now, Hekat. Forget that place, it does not exist.” She nodded. “Yes, Abajai. How far Todorok village?” “We will reach it a finger or two past highsun tomorrow.” “More honey there?” she asked him hopefully. That made him laugh. “Perhaps. Slaves, too.” She felt a moment’s prickling. If he found a she-brat more precious than her . . . “Many slaves now.” “There is no such thing as too many slaves, Hekat.” They should talk of something else. She frowned, and carefully put her words together in the way he told her she must. “How far is Et-Raklion?”

He made a pleased sound in his throat. “Many godmoons caravanning still. Your village lies at the doorstep of The Anvil, Hekat. The Anvil. You know it?” She nodded. The Anvil was the fierce forever desert one highsun’s ride from the village godpost. She’d never seen it, of course, but knew of men and boys lured into it hunting sandcats, who were never seen again. She used to wish the man would be so foolish. “Et-Raklion sits at the far side of Mijak. Et-Raklion city, where the warlord lives, where we live, lies close to the Mijaki border, half a godmoon’s swift travel from the Sand River.” Bewildered, she wriggled around to look at him. “Border? Sand River?” He shook his head. “Your world would fit in a stunted nutshell. Hekat. The border is where Mijak ends. The Sand River is a desert, like The Anvil, though not as vast. You understand?” Beside them, Yagji roused. “Save your breath, Aba. It doesn’t need geography. Teach it a dozen ways to spread its legs and it’ll know more than enough for our purpose.” She struggled to untangle his meaning. “Mijak ends?” “Yes.” Abajai rested his warm hand on the back of her neck. “At the Sand River. Beyond the Sand River lie other lands. We do not go to those places, the people there are dead to us.” “Why?” Abajai shrugged. “Because the god has said it.” “Why?” Yagji squealed and kissed his lizard-foot amulet. Abajai’s fingers closed around her neck, painted nails biting her throat, and his lips touched her ear. “You wish to live, Hekat?” Heart pounding, she nodded. Abajai’s voice had turned dark and cold. He was angry. What had she done? His harsh breath scoured her cheek. “Never ask the god why. Not in your heart and never with your mouth. You understand?” No, but he was hurting her. Again, she nodded. “Good,” he said, and let her go. “That is all you learn today.” Yagji had kissed his amulet so hard the carved yellow stone had split his flesh. A thin thread of blood dribbled down his chin. He touched the small wound, stared at the blood, then leaned over to thrust his wet red finger into Abajai’s face. “See this, Aba! The godbites me! It gives a sign! Dream no more of fortune. Sell your precious Hekat in Todorok, I beg you!” Abajai gave him a square of white cloth. “The god does not punish sideways, Yagji. You bleed for your own sin, or by accident. Hekat is not for sale in Todorok.”

Hekat let out a deep breath and waited for her heart to slow. She didn’t want Abajai to know she’d been so frightened. For a long time Yagji rode in silence, the white cloth held to his cut lip with trembling fingers. His eyes were wide and staring far ahead, into the gathering dusk. “We’ll talk on this again, Abajai,” he said at last, very softly. “Before we reach Et-Raklion.” “We’ll talk of many things, Yagji,” said Abajai, as softly. “Before we reach Et-Raklion.” CHAPTER THREE They reached Todorok village a half-finger after highsun next. Hekat stared and stared, so much strangeness to see. First was Todorok’s godpost. It looked new, untouched by harsh sunshine, unsplintered by windstorms. Twice as tall as the godpost she’d left behind in the village, it was painted bright godcolors: purple and green and gold. Scorpions carved from shiny black crystal crawled around and around to the white crow at its top, carrying messages to the god. The god-bowl at its base was a scorpion too, heavy black iron, tail raised, claws outstretched, and its belly was full of coin. Abajai dropped gold into it as they passed and pressed his knuckles to his breast in respect. So did Yagji show respect. So did she, after Abajai pinched her shoulder and growled. Barely had she stopped marveling over the godpost than her breath was stolen a second time. Todorok village wasbig . It had wide streets covered in smooth stones and houses painted white. Their roofs weren’t made of grass, they hadscales , like a snake, many different colors. The air was clean, it did not stink of goats and men. The villagers waving as the caravan passed wore bright clothes all over and coverings on their heads. Strange . They had flesh on their bones. Their skin was shiny and smooth, not baked into cracked leather by endless sun. Some of them wereshe-brats , not chained in secret but walking freely beneath the sky, no man close to poke and strike. How couldthat be? Abajai and Yagji led the caravan to the center of the village, where the road opened into a large square. White buildings lined every side. One was a godhouse, its door and windows bordered with stinging scorpions and striking snakes. Here were scattered clumps of colorful flowers and water bubbling inside a ring of white rocks to splashunused on the ground. Hekat couldn’t believe it. If she had ever once wasted so much the man would not have waited for the godspeaker, he would have broken her body himself and tossed it to his dogs. The villagers gathered to greet them, smiled and laughed, they were pleased to see the Trader caravan. A smiling godspeaker stepped forward as Abajai and Yagji halted their camels. Not stooped and skinny, this one. His arms weren’t stringy, his robes were clean. The scorpion-shell bound to his forehead was uncracked and shiny. He had all his teeth and fingers. “Welcome, Trader Abajai, Trader Yagji,” said the godspeaker. “It is many seasons since you were seen in Todorok.” Abajai ordered his camel to kneel, climbed down, and snapped his fingers. Hekat climbed down after

him and stood a little to one side, silent and wide-eyed. As Yagji’s camel folded its legs so the fat Trader might stand on the ground, Abajai said, “The god sends us where and when it desires, Toolu godspeaker. This far north good slaves grow thin on the ground, like grain without nourishment. But we are here this highsun, to trade for supplies and buy such flesh from you as promises us profit. If you have flesh to sell?” “I am certain there will be some,” said the godspeaker. “Let us wait in the godhouse as word is sent to bring merchandise for your inspection. I will make sacrifice for your arrival.” Abajai bowed. “The god sees you, godspeaker. And as we wait . . .” He took Hekat’s arm, tugging her forward. “You see this one?” The godspeaker nodded, his curiosity almost hidden. “I see that one, Trader Abajai.” “I wish it bathed and fed and dressed in cotton, with shoes upon its feet and charm-beads in its godbraided hair, for health and beauty and obedience. You will please me and the god to grant my desire. I will make an offering in return.” The godspeaker’s hooded gaze lingered on Abajai’s scarlet scorpion, quiet in his cheek. Then he raised a sharp hand, so the snake-bones bangled round his wrist chattered. “Bisla.” A short plump woman stepped forward from the watching crowd. Ivory amulets dangled from her ears and her nakedness was hidden beneath robes too fine forany female, surely. “Godspeaker.” “Abajai wishes this one bathed and fed and dressed in cotton, with shoes upon its feet and charm-beads for health and beauty and obedience in its godbraided hair,” the godspeaker said, not looking at the woman. “You and your sisters may honor him so.” “Yes, godspeaker.” The woman held out her hand. “Come, child.” Hekat looked up at Abajai. “Go with her,” he said. “Obey her wishes but hold your tongue. There is nothing to fear, you will return to me before we leave.” “Yes, Abajai,” she said, trusting him. His word was his word, he kept her safe. The woman and two others took her to a white house two streets away from Abajai. Its lizard roof had scales of blue and yellow. Inside, the floor was made of wood—did so many trees grow anywhere, to be cut down and turned into houses?—and on top of the wood were large squares of colored wool, soft beneath her feet. The women hurried her to a room with no windows. Sunk into its floor was a deep round hole maybe six man-paces across, lined with smooth stones. Stone steps led down into it. The woman Bisla rang a bell. A moment later a large slave appeared at the door. He was bare-chested, sewn with beads across his breast. He wore loose green trousers and red cloth shoes with pointy toes. “Mistress,” he said, his hairless head bowed. “Hot water,” said the woman Bisla. “Fresh soap. Cloths. Brushes and combs. My bead box. My hand mirror. Tunic and pantaloons from Dily’s room, cotton, not linen or wool. And shoes.” “Mistress,” the slave said again, and withdrew. A wide wooden bench ran the length of one wall. The woman Bisla and her sisters pushed Hekat onto it.

Then they stripped off the yellow robe Abajai had given her. Hekat would have shouted and snatched it back again, slapped the women for daring to touch Abajai’s gift. But Abajai had told her his word so she just pinched her lips and let them take it. “Skinny! Skinny!” the woman Bisla exclaimed, pointing at her ribs. “Does Abajai not feed you, child?” Abajai had told her not to talk. She shrugged. “Is that yes or no?” Another shrug. “She’s afraid, poor thing,” said one of the other women. “I wonder who she is? Not Abajai’s get!” She arched her thin eyebrows at the others and giggled. As slaves led by the hairless beaded man entered the room bearing leather buckets of steaming water, the woman Bisla frowned and shook her head. “Tcha! It is not needful to know these things.” The hairless beaded slave put down the items the woman Bisla had ordered him to bring, then watched as one by one the other slaves emptied their buckets into the stone-lined hole. They left and returned many times until the hole was filled almost to the top. They placed four full wooden buckets to one side, bowed, and withdrew. The woman Bisla spread a large cloth beside the hole and on it placed a brush, a comb, a pile of smaller cloths and a pale pink jar. She took off its lid. Inside was something soft and slippery, smelling like flowers. Amazed, Hekat stared at the hole full of water. Stared even more amazed as the woman Bisla stripped off her clothes and trod down the stone steps into it. The water reached up to her waist. Bisla held out her hand. “Come, child. Into the bath.” She shook her head. It was a stoning sin to put your body into water. Seasons and seasons ago, when she’d been a tiny she-brat, a boy in the village had lost his wits and put himself into the largest of the village’s four wells. The godspeaker stoned him slowly, one small rock at a time, and he left the boy’s face till last. The god’s wrath was terrible, it opened so many screaming mouths in that boy’s flesh, wept so many blood tears over that boy’s sin, it only took one stone in the eye to finish him. That dead boy was hung from the village godpost until he turned to leather. Then every dwelling in the village had to keep him under their roof for a godmoon. Once every dwelling had housed him that boy was given back to his family, and his family was driven onto The Anvil. Only a fool put his body into water. “Come, child!” Bisla said again, sounding impatient. “You are dirty and wretched and the godspeaker will punish us if you are not made presentable for Abajai.” Hekat shook her head. Bisla snapped her fingers at the other women, they lifted her by the arms and dropped her shrieking and kicking into the water. It closed over her head as though the god was swallowing her alive, rushed up her nose and down her throat. A haze as scarlet as Abajai’s tattooed scorpion rose behind her screwed-shut eyes. She thrashed to the surface, opened her mouth to scream and the water poured in . . . “Aieee, you stupid child!” the woman Bisla shouted, smacking. “Spit it up!Spit it up !”

Hekat spat and retched and could breathe again. Making her legs strong she stood up straight. The water stopped at her shoulders. Her unbraided hair was a wet mat plastered to her skin, she coughed and spluttered and her chest was on fire, but she wasn’t dead. Bisla dragged the sopping hair away from her eyes and dug long fingernails into her cheeks. “This is Abajai’s word! You must do as Abajai commands!” Yes. Yes. The woman Bisla was right. Above all things she must obey Abajai. “It is a bath, child,” the woman said crossly. “Surely you’ve had a bath before?” “I don’t think she has, Bisla,” said the shorter of her sisters. “The poor thing’s terrified.” “No wonder she’s so filthy if she’s never had a bath,” said the other one. “Be gentle, Bisla. If you frighten her she might complain to Abajai or Toolu godspeaker.” The woman Bisla loosened her fingers, and managed a smile. “Do not be afraid, child. The water will not hurt you, and neither will we. You want to be clean, don’t you?” Still breathing hard, Hekat shrugged. The water sloshed against her skin, warm and comforting. All the tight places in her body, the muscles in her legs, her back, that had knotted like goathide rope with the camel-riding, they were starting to unknot. She’d wanted to walk some days, to run beside Abajai on the ground to ease her aching body, but he wouldn’t let her. She hadn’t complained, had never once whimpered, but with every newsun her body had hurt just a little bit more. This hot water was . . . was . . . Good? No. Good was a small word. She didn’t have a big enough word for what this was. She smiled. “There!” said the woman Bisla, and pinched the end of her nose, but not meanly. “Soon you will feel wonderful, I promise!” With her sisters’ help, Bisla poured the pink flower-smelling stuff onto cloths and scrubbed Hekat all over, even between her toes. More pink stuff was poured into her hair, so Bisla could scrub that too. The pink stuff turned frothy like sadsa, but not white. Grubby brown, it floated on the water and stung her eyes. But that was only a small pain and it was what Abajai wanted, so Hekat didn’t protest or fight. She gasped when the woman Bisla poured a whole bucket of water over her head, was astonished when her hair was scrubbed again, then again, until the froth at last was sadsa white. By then the hot water was cool and she was feeling so soft, so floppy, it was all she could do to keep her legs strong and straight. If she wasn’t careful she’d slide right back under the water again. Her wet hair was so heavy her head wanted to tip backwards. If she let that happen it might snap off altogether. That was how heavy her hair felt. “There, child. You are properly clean,” said the woman Bisla. “Does it please you?” Hekat nodded. Properly clean was something else bigger than good. What had the woman said? Wonderful .

“Now we must somehow untangle that rat’s nest you call hair. Aieee! Let’s hope Abajai and Yagji are in a haggling mood today or you’ll never be godbraided before they finish their business!” The woman Bisla helped her climb up the stone steps on her wobbly legs. Then the other two women wrapped her in a large thick cloth and pressed the water from her heavy hair with more cloths as the woman Bisla dried and dressed herself. After that, all three women sat her on the floor. They seated themselves around her and began to tease at her damp hair. It hurt. Their busy fingers tugged and twisted, they made sharp sounds of annoyance and asked the god over and over to help them. “Has it ever been brushed?” grumbled the shortest sister. “I don’t think it has.” She was wrong. The woman had brushed her hair sometimes, when the man wasn’t looking. Not often, though, and not for long. “How many godbraids does Abajai want?” said the other sister, tchut-tchutting as her comb caught in another knot. Hekat swallowed a cry of pain. She-brats who made noises like that were always sorry. “Even with the god’s help we won’t manage more than fifteen before the haggling’s done. Will that be enough?” “If you waggle your fingers as fast as your tongue there’ll be plenty of godbraids when we give her back!” snapped the woman Bisla. Hekat yawned and closed her eyes. The hot water had left her sleepy, all her nagging pains lulled to silence. The knots were gone from her hair now, the women’s fingers whispered through it. Their light touches on her scalp prickled over her warm clean sweet-smelling skin. The woman Bisla and her sisters chattered as they worked, talking of people and secrets, village business. She let herself drift away from it, wondering about Abajai and what he was doing. “There!” the woman Bisla said at last, jerking her back to the room. “You are godbraided. See?” She waggled her fingers, and the shorter sister gave her a polished silver disc attached to a carved wooden handle. Hekat had never seen anything like it. “Look!” said the woman Bisla. “The god has blessed you, child.” Hekat looked and saw a face. Even though it was against Abajai’s word, she cried out. “Aieee! Demon! Demon !” The woman Bisla grabbed her wrist. “Demon? Silly child! That is no demon, that isyou .” She held up the silver disc. “This is a mirror. Have you never seen a mirror?” Mirror? Heart pounding, all the warmth and softness in her body turned cold and hard with fear, Hekat shook her head. “She is a savage, Bisla,” the other sister said. “Where are you from, child?” said the woman Bisla, still holding her wrist. “Where did Abajai find you?” She’d spoken too many words, against Abajai’s want. She shook her head again, lips pinched shut. The woman Bisla sighed, and held up the mirror again. “Look,” she said, her voice coaxing now, like the man’s sons to the shy goats. “It will not harm you. How can it? The face in the mirror is yours.”

She had never seen her face before, never dreamed there was a way anyone could see their own face or imagined why they would want to. She looked. Two blue eyes, big and frightened. Thick black lashes, long enough to brush her skin. High cheekbones. Hollow cheeks. A wide mouth with plump pink lips. A softly pointed chin. All these face-parts the woman had shown her, touching her own and saying the words over and over until she remembered. She could see the woman’s face in the mirror and the man’s too, muddled together to make Hekat. Framing Hekat’s face were her godbraids. Fascinated, she watched her fingers touch the bright red and green beads the women had woven into her thick black hair. Her godbraids weren’t like Abajai’s, they were fatter and looser and they didn’t hold as many charms. When they reached Et-Raklion she would ask him to give her godbraids like his. He would do that for her, she was precious. The woman Bisla’s finger stroked her cheek. “You are very beautiful, child. Do you understand?” No, but the woman was smiling. Did that make beautiful a good thing? She wanted to know. Abajai had said no speaking, but these words were in service of him, so . . . “Beautiful please Abajai?” “Yes,” said the woman Bisla. “Of course. Beautiful pleases every man.” She let herself smile. Pleasing Abajai was all that mattered. In the mirror she saw her teeth, pure white in her clean and beautiful face. “Now you must dress, child,” said the woman Bisla. “Abajai will be waiting.” The tunic and pantaloons they put on her weren’t soft and silken slippery like Abajai’s yellow robe but they felt good all the same. They were colored dark green, with gold and crimson threads sewn around the neck and the wrist and the ankles. They sat upon her scented skin lightly, and rustled when she moved. “Look at her feet,” said the older sister, frowning. “The soles are like leather! Does she even need shoes?” “Shoes are Abajai’s word,” said the woman Bisla. “In shoes her soles will soften over time. She has pretty, slender feet. They must be protected.” In the village only men had clothed their feet. Hekat wriggled as her toes were imprisoned. “Tchut tchut,” said the woman Bisla, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Would you disobey Abajai?” Never. Abajai had saved her from the man. He was more real to her than the god itself. The women led her out of the white house with the blue and yellow lizard roof, back to the open place where the caravan waited. The villagers had gone away, now it was just Obid and his guards keeping close watch on the merchandise. A group of Todorok slaves waited in the village space, naked and chained. Hekat stared hard at them as she waited for Abajai to return, but none of these slaves looked precious or beautiful. Not like me.

She counted two men slaves, three women and four boys. No she-brats. They were taller than the people of her own village. Their faces were wider. All were darker colored, save one man whose skin was dark and pale, faded patches like an ancient goatskin.Strange . One boy slave was fat. She had never seen a fat boy before. The man beat his sons with the goat-stick if he thought their flesh was gaining. Fat boys ran too slowly after goats and couldn’t do the snake-dance properly. That angered the god. The fat boy’s hair was tightly godbraided and all black, no single scarlet slave braid. Not like the others standing with him. There was water on his cheeks. He wascrying . Hekat shook her head, amazed. Here there was so much water, he must be used to wasting it. Here there was so much water, maybe it couldn’t be wasted. But he was still stupid to cry. Water could not melt the chains from his wrist and ankles. Better to stand up straight and show Abajai he was worthy of coin. The fat boy stared at her, and she stared back. Then Abajai came out of the godhouse with Yagji and the godspeaker Toolu and she didn’t stare anywhere but at Abajai’s stern face. When he saw her, Abajai smiled and crossed the open village space. His long fingers dipped inside his robe and dropped three bronze coins into the woman Bisla’s palm. “You have pleased me and the god.” “Go now, Bisla, you and your sisters. Tend your menfolk and your hearths,” said the godspeaker. The woman and her sisters nodded, and walked away. Abajai looked to Yagji, who went to one of the pack camels and from its panniers pulled a stout wooden box criss-crossed with leather lacings. Strung on the lacings were so many charms and amulets the box looked infested. Yagji carried the heavy box to Abajai, who beckoned one of the slave guards to him. Without having to be told, the guard knelt on the ground, making himself into a table. Yagji put the box on the guard’s back and together, with great care, he and Abajai began to unlace it. Each charm and amulet had to be touched, with fingertip or lip or tongue or a charm pulled from a pocket or set into a ring. With every touch a wisp of godsbreath puffed into the air. Only when the godsbreath had been blown away was the charm or amulet safe to unstring from its leather thong and only then if the right man had touched it, in the right order. If the wrong man tried to unlace the box, he would die a horrible death. This was how the Traders protected their wealth, Abajai had explained on the road. Even though Traders were beloved of the god, men were sometimes foolish and thought they could steal from Trader caravans. Or sometimes Traders fell into misfortune so they perished and their money was found beside their bodies. That money by the god’s law must be returned to the Traders’ city but if it was not protected by godsworn Trader charms a man might not do his duty. He might keep that money and spend it for himself. Hekat marveled that men could be so wicked. The godspeaker Toolu had brought a large woven basket with him from the godhouse. When the godsbreath was blown from the last amulet, and all the box’s leather lacings unlaced to show its burden of coin, Abajai poured silver and bronze coins into the basket. Last of all he took a single black purse from the box and added three gold coins to the silver and bronze. When he was finished there was more air than money in the unlaced wooden box. The godspeaker Toolu nodded, and carried his laden basket back into the godhouse. Yagji closed the

box’s lid and relaced all the leather lacings, threading them with the charms and amulets. His fingers moved swiftly, surely. Hekar marveled at how he remembered every charm and amulet’s proper position. Abajai stood quietly watching, a small smile curving his lips. Just as Yagji finished, the godspeaker returned carrying a large scorpion carved from some shiny black stone banded with thin strips of bronze. Yagji stood back. The godspeaker placed the carved scorpion on top of the leather-laced wooden box and closed his eyes. It seemed to Hekar that the whole world went silent. “Breathe, god,”said the godspeaker Toolu, in a voice like distant thunder. “Breathe, god. Breathe, god.” A thick black mist oozed from the carved stone scorpion and onto the charms laced over the wooden box, soaking into them and swiftly disappearing. The guard who was a table shuddered and groaned, but did not collapse. Blood dripped from his open mouth to splash on the ground beneath him. “The god has breathed,” said the godspeaker once the mist stopped oozing, and picked up the carved stone scorpion. “Merchandise has passed between us. Payment is given, payment is taken. Our business is done.” “Our business is done,” said Abajai, as Yagji put the wooden box back into its pannier on the pack camel. “It has been a good Trading.” The godspeaker nodded. “Travel well, Trader Abajai. I will not ask where next you buy and sell, for this I know is Traders’ business not fit for a village-bound man to know, even if he is the godspeaker.” Abajai’s small smile grew wider. “Well do you know the ways of Trading, Toolu godspeaker.” “But be wary as you travel through Et-Jokriel,” said the godspeaker, frowning. “The times are grown uneasy. Green fields turn brown and where water flowed freely, in places now it trickles. Where there was water now is dirt. The sky is blue, crops wither in the sun. Jokriel warlord dreams of grain within his empty barns. He sends his warriors over the borders to raid and fight his brother warlords. He is not the only warlord so afflicted. Hammers ring on anvils, Abajai. Bloodshed rides the wind.” Abajai bowed. “We will be wary. The god see you, Toolu godspeaker. The god see you in its eye.” They left the village, then, with the handful of new slaves chained to the tail of the snake and poked into walking by Obid’s sharp spear. Once Todorok was behind them, Yagji turned to Abajai in fright. “You heard him, Aba! Bloodshed rides the wind! How bad have things become since we began our caravan?” “The god knows,” said Abajai. “Hold your tongue, Yagji. We will talk of this beneath the stars, when only you and I are listening.” “Abajai—’ said Hekat, wanting to know, but he pressed his hand on her shoulder, then dropped a loop of leather over her head. Dangling from it was a beautiful amulet, a carved snake’s eye in deepest blue. She snatched it up. “Abajai!”

“You must wear this always,” Abajai told her. “While you wear it the god will see you in its eye.” Never in her life had she possessed her own amulet. “Yes, Abajai,” she whispered, and pressed the snake-eye against her lips. “Such extravagance!” Yagji scolded. “And after we were paid too little for the pish, and charged too much for Todorok’s slaves! With all your spare coin it would he better had you paid the godspeaker to give it a slave-braid, not—” “No,” said Abajai. “The god does not desire that.” Yagji made a gobbling sound. “And does the god desire us reduced to seven bronze coins and a single camel? Aieee, you try me, Aba, you try me sorely! I will bargain next time, you are growing soft in your old age . . .” Buzz, buzz, buzz. Yagji had more words than the sky had stars, and none of them as pretty. Hekat didn’t listen. Abajai had paid coin to give her an amulet, to keep her in the god’s eye. She was precious. He cared for her. She cared for him, too. A new feeling, strange, unfurling shyly like a seed in dry dirt. He was the only breathing thing she had ever cared for. She was his, for ever and ever. No matter what that Yagji said. CHAPTER FOUR That night, after dinner, Hekat curled up by the camp fire and listened, eyes closed, as Abajai and Yagji talked Trader business in soft urgent voices. “It is unwise not to heed a godspeaker’s warning,” said Abajai. “From newsun we will travel straight through Et-Jokriel to Thakligar in Et-Mamiklia, and from there over the border into Et-Nogolor. Nogolor warlord’s treaties with Et-Raklion will keep us safe. Until then we are prey for raiding warbands.” “That is true,” Yagji sighed. “But surely we can do alittle Trading along the way, Aba? Remember we were blessed by Nagarak himself. The god sees us in its eye.” Abajai hissed air between his teeth. “Being blessed does not make us untouchable. Demons can take us, and so can fighting warlords with no love for Et-Raklion.” Demons. Hekat clutched her snake-eye amulet. The village godspeaker shouted loud against demons. Demons sickened goats. They spoiled the snake-dance so the young men died fangstruck. They dried up the well-water, or made it bitter. Demons dressed in plague and pestilence. Women who spawned she-brats only were demon-ridden. They had opened their legs to a demon so their man’s seed was poisoned. That was why such women were stoned. Only stoning could drive out a demon and afterwards sacrifice, because demons had power where the people did not love the god enough. I love the god, she promised, as her snake-eye amulet bruised her fingers.Do not let the demons prick me . “I know, I know we must travel swiftly,” moaned Yagji, and tugged his godbraids. “But so much lost money, Aba!” Abajai growled. “What is money to a dead man in the grass? We are no match for a warlord’s raiding

party.” “No, but perhaps we will not see one!” “That is not a risk I am prepared to take,” said Abajai, sounding grim. “You have eyes, Yagji, you see Et-Jokriel is turning brown. It is not alone, you saw how changed are Et-Bajadek and Et-Takona since last we caravanned through them. Those warlords will soon be at each other’s throats, spilling blood.” “Each other’s throats, Aba,” Yagji wheedled. “Not ours. We are Traders, no part of their squabbles.” “When the bloodlust is on them they will not care!” Abajai’s voice was cold and hard. “And we are from Et-Raklion. Raklion warlord’s lands are still lush and green. That alone is cause for hate.” Yagji sighed again. “True.” “Et-Raklion is like a fat lamb cast before a pack of starving dogs. When the other warlords have stolen all they can from each otherthere is where they will turn their envious eyes. They might even think to defy the god and band together in a single attack. We must be home before that happens. You do not believe me?” Abajai added, as Yagji fidgeted. “Then I will read the godbones, and the god will tell you.” Through slitted eyes Hekat watched Abajai study his godbones. The scarlet scorpion in his check was restless as he rolled the painted pieces of snake-spine, read them, and rolled them some more. She had never seen godbones painted like that, blood red and venom green and blue like the sky at highsun. The man had godbones, small, chipped and bare of paint. He’d made them himself after a snake-dance and was never pleased with what they told him. The racing lizards he bet on always lost. But neither was Abajai pleased with his fine godbones. His scarlet scorpion leapt and writhed. In the flickering firelight it looked like it was stinging Abajai. His forehead sweated, his breathing rasped. “Well? Well? What do they say?” Yagji demanded. “They say what I have said already,” Abajai whispered harshly. “We must caravan hard to Et-Nogolor city, sell the merchandise there and seek the swiftest way home to Et-Raklion.” “Aieee!” said Yagji, pressing his palms to his plump cheeks. Then he flicked a sideways, hopeful glance. “Sellall the merchandise?” Hekat stopped pretending to sleep, she threw herself to the edge of Abajai’s blanket. “Abajai not sell Hekat!” Her teeth chattered with fear. “Hekat belong to Abajai!” “There, Aba, you see what you’ve done?” said Yagji, outraged. “It’s got attached! You made a pet of it and it’s got attached!” He took her by the shoulders and shook her till her eyes rolled. “You be quiet! Shall I beat you? Shall I give you to the god? Be quiet with your howling, you wretched monkey!” “Be still, Hekat,” said Abajai. “You also, Yagji.” The scorpion in his cheek was sleeping now, his fingers plucked up the godbones one by one and slipped them into their snakeskin pouch. When it was full he closed his eyes and pressed it to his lips. Yagji released her. She sat on the cold ground and waited as Abajai gave thanks to the god for its teachings in the bones. She had no fear of a beating. Yagji told Abajai all the time he should beat her, and Abajai never listened. She knew he never would. Abajai would never hurt her.

“You belong to Abajai, Hekat,” he said when he was finished, slipping the godbone pouch into his robe pocket. His face was grave, but his eyes were warm. “I will not sell you in Et-Nogolor city.” Silly pricky burning in her eyes. They traveled through a land of water but she wouldn’t waste any of hers. “Hekat belong to Abajai,” she whispered. Muttering crossly, Yagji withdrew to his tent. Abajai ignored him, and raised a finger so she would pay close attention. “Yes. She does. Now go to bed, Hekat. From tomorrow you will walk as well as ride my camel. You are stronger now, there is meat on your bones. You have shoes on your feet. Walking will be good for you.” She gifted him with her widest smile. “Yes, Abajai! Thank you, Abajai!” Tucked beneath her blankets, she held her beautiful blue snake-eye and waited for sleep to claim her. She was not afraid of squabbling warlords, or of demons, or Yagji. Abajai was here, Abajai would protect her. Abajai, and the god. It gave me to Abajai. It sees me in its eye. The god sees Hekat, it knows she is precious. So the caravan continued, but she did not walk. She ran. She danced. She darted ahead, then back to Abajai, sometimes with flowers to give him, other times just a smile. She felt like a snake that had shed its skin, all scaled and wrinkled, tattered, torn. Hekat was the new snake, with cotton clothes and shoes on her feet and charms woven through her godbraided hair. Yes. She was a beautiful snake. Following many highsuns travel they left the lands of Jokriel warlord and entered the lands ruled by the warlord Mamiklia. There they were told of warbands on the prowl, of fighting fierce and bloody and not far away. They came across burning bodies and slaughtered horses twice. The stink made Yagji vomit. Once they were nearly caught in a warrior raid. After that, Abajai and Yagji made their white camels jog as well as walk. The pack-camels jogged too, and the long chained snake-spine of slaves, with Obid and his fellow guards poking and hitting and scolding with vulture voices. Abajai wouldn’t let Hekat run, he kept her on the camel with him. All the camel-jogging made Yagji sick, like the dead rotting horses had made him sick. He clutched his fat belly, moaning and spitting. Abajai wouldn’t stop for him to get off and spew into the grass so he spewed up his insides over the side of his camel, or when they paused to water the slaves. Hekat lost count of the highsuns that followed. One day blurred into the next, and the next. Even the countryside lost its charm. There were trees, she’d seen trees. There were flowers, she’d seen flowers. And villages, and crops, and orchards, and horses, and cattle, and wild hawks flying. The water flowing deep beneath the land of Mijak, Abajai said, rose to the surface where the god desired, in streams and rivers. Creatures calledfish swam in them, good for eating, she had seen fish now. Once there was a small blue lake, there were things calledboats on it, she could not get excited. Water was water, it had lost its power to amaze. She was tired of traveling. She wanted to rest.

They crossed the border into Et-Nogolor, and four fingers after acknowledging the godpost met a band of hard-riding warriors, men and women wearing shells of hardened leather on their upper bodies. In the middle of their leather chests was a hunting bird picked out in stones of lowsun fire, and plaited into their charm-heavy godbraids waved long red feathers banded thickly with black. Leather thongs dangled round their necks, threaded with rattling, bouncing fingerbones. They were fierce men and women with cold eyes and cruel months. Their horses’ eyes were angry. They carried arrows on their backs and a bow looped onto their saddles. Long curved blades belted at their waists flashed silver in the sunlight. The warriors belonged to Nogolor warlord, Abajai said, and those curved blades were scimitars. A scimitar could cut a camel’s head right off its neck. Never cross a man with a scimitar, said Abajai. Sell him a sharpstone instead. Hekat stared as the warband drummed towards Et-Mamiklia on their dusty, sweat-streaked horses. They were beautiful, those warriors. As beautiful as she was, in their way. “If all we see are Et-Nogolor’s warriors we need not be afraid,” Abajai told Yagji. “Or even the warriors of Raklion warlord. But if we see warriors of Bajadek, or Mamiklia, or one of the other warlords . . .” Yagji whimpered and was sick again down the side of his unhappy camel. On and on and on they caravanned, and slowly the road grew crowded with other travelers, ox-carts and slave-litters and plain men on horses. Farms and fenced cattle pastures stretched on either side of them. Eleven highsuns after crossing the border they reached Et-Nogolor city. It rose from the plain like a rock on green sand. “Sobig ,” said Hekat to Abajai, astonished. “Not as big as Et-Raklion city,” said Yagji, and shifted on his camel. “Or as fine. Aba, I hope this means we are out of trouble. I hope we see no more galloping warriors. Are you certain you read the godbones right? We will be safe in Et-Nogolor city?” Hekat knew Abajai well, now. She knew he wanted to shout at Yagji or smakck him till his godbraids clattered their charms. But she knew Yagji, too. Shouting at the fat man only made him sulk and when he sulked his cooking was bad. So did Abajai know Yagji. “I have told you ten times, Yagji, they say we are safe here.” Yagji fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cloth. “The godbones will never speak to me,” he fretted, dabbing sweat from his face. “I wish I had the ears to hear them. Aba, we should spend coin to make sacrifice in Et-Nogolor’s godhouse. If the warlords squabble it is because demons prick them. We must make an offering against their wicked wiles.” Abajai said, “Sacrifice is a good idea, Yagji. Deaf to the godbones you may be, but never deaf to the god.” Yagji’s miserable face brightened. He always smiled when Abajai told him good about himself. “Never.” So many others now traveled the road with them it was three fingers past highsun before they reached the tail-end of wagons and horses waiting to be allowed through the enormous city gates. Et-Nogolor rose up and up above their heads, ringed by a wooden wall, tall cut-down trees as wide as three Abajais,

standing side by side by side, no space between. Each tree was carved and painted with the god’s eye, with snakefangs and centipedes, with scorpions and the same bird face that shrieked on the leather shells of Et-Nogolor’s warriors. Real skulls there were, too, glaring blind at the spreading plain. Horse. Goat. Bird. Man. Painted with god colors, dangled with amulets, jangled with charms. Godbells sang silver-tongued on the breeze. With her head tilted back so her godbraids tickled the camel’s shoulder, Hekat looked past the city’s climbing buildings to the godhouse at its very top. The godhouse’s godpost was so tall that even from so far below she could see its stinging scorpion, tail raised to strike the wicked sinner. She felt her voice shrivel in her throat. This place . . . thiscity . . . “You are right to be awed,” said Abajai. He always knew what she was thinking. “Et-Nogolor is a mighty city. Only the city Et-Raklion is greater, because once it was Mijak’s ruling city.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Ruling city, Abajai?” He nodded. “When Mijak was ruled by a single warlord, before the god decreed one must be seven. The city Et-Raklion was his home. It was not called Et-Raklion then, but still. It is the same.” Warlords. She had been thinking about them. “Abajai, what is a warlord?” “A man of power,” he said. “Appointed by the god to rule lands and villages and the people who live there.” She frowned. “No warlord rules Hekat’s village, Abajai. Only godspeaker.” “The savage north is different. Long ago it had warlords to rule it. It was part of what is now Et-Jokriel and Et-Mamiklia. But the land is harsh there. With every season, grain by grain, the sands of The Anvil creep closer. Those long-ago warlords abandoned the north. Its villages are in the god’s eye, Hekat. The god is their warlord.” “Tcha,” said Yagji, pulling a face. “First geography, now history. To what end, Aba, there is no point.” Abajai patted her shoulder. “Yagji is right. The past does not matter, or the savage north. Rest your tongue, Hekat. We move again.” So they did, but slowly. She could see the city gates, they had long iron teeth to bite off the heads of the unwary, and tall men with bladed spears to guard them. Snakes and scorpions were carved in the wood, and the sign for godsmite. Any demon who tried to pass these gates would die. At last they reached the Gatekeeper, a monstrous tall man like a tree made flesh. His body was clothed in red and black striped horsehide. On his head he wore a horse skull with horns, around his neck a scarlet scorpion. His belt was green snakeskin threaded with snake-skulls, each winking eye a crimson gem. He wore no godbraids, his head was bald. His skin was hidden beneath writhing tattoos. Hekat was pleased to see not one was as fine as Abajai’s scarlet scorpion. “Business!” the Gatekeper barked, like a dog. He had so many protections set in his teeth his lips wouldn’t close properly over them. Abajai put his hand in his pocket, then held out a piece of carved green stone, round like a thin branch

and as long as his palm was wide. “Trader business, Gatekeeper. Abajai and Yagji of Et-Raklion, brother city of Et-Nogolor. There you have our seal stamped by Raklion warlord himself.” His hand dipped again into his pocket, to pull out another stone cylinder. This one was blue. “And here is proof of road-rights fully paid. We come to trade our merchandise and give the god sacred blood in the godhouse.” The Gatekeeper examined both carved stones, then nodded to one of the tall city guards. The guard walked with his bladed spear all the way to the end of the merchandise and back again. When he returned he nodded to the Gatekeeper and took his place at the gate. “And what is this?” said the Gatekeeper, jerking his chin. Hekat shrank from the Gatekeeper’s gaze. His eyes were hot, they had no whites, they glowed yellow in the shade beneath the dagger-tooth gates. Abajai’s finger touched the small of her back. “A bauble,” he said, his voice soft and calm. She didn’t know what a bauble was but she sensed he was trying to make the hot-eyed Gatekeeper cool. That was good, she wanted him cool. Something about him reminded her of the man, he hated she-brats, she could tell. His hot eyes frightened her. She hated being frightened, it made her angry. She stared at the white camel’s neck so he wouldn’t see her anger. The Gatekeeper growled in his throat. He sounded like a dog again. “For sale?” “Alas, this one is sold already,” said Yagji, and his voice was pouty. “To a very special client. We would not dare to sell it twice, Gatekeeper Et-Nogolor. Not and keep our name as honest Traders.” Hekat held her breath and risked a look through her lowered lashes. The Gatekeeper grunted. His hot yellow eyes were disappointed. He handed back the two carved stones and jerked his thumb. “Pass.” “Thankyou, Gatekeeper,” said Yagji. “The god sees you in its eye.” “Well done, Yagji,” Abajai murmured as they entered Et-Nogolor. “Your tongue is as persuasive as ever.” “And my brain is upside down,” said Yagji, sour as goat-milk. “What a chance to get rid of the brat, Aba. Aieee, the god see me in its eye. The foolish things I do for you . . .” Hekat said nothing, just pressed her blue snake-eye against her lips and breathed a sigh of happiness. Et-Nogolor city’s godpost stood just inside the open gates, grim and glorious as the god itself. Not wood, but solid shiny black stone. All its carved scorpions were purple and crimson. Abajai gave its huge godbowl more than gold, he gave it amulets and godbells and tiny snake-skulls bound with charms. Yagji gave it a fistful of gemstones, and they both bowed their heads to the ground before it. The god appeased, Abajai and Yagji climbed back on their camels and led the slave-train along a crowded narrow street lined with buildings made of stone and brick and wood. Hekat stared at the buildings and the men and the women and the brats and the skinny dogs running free around their feet. The hot air of Et-Nogolor city was thick with man stink, animal stink, smoke fires and cooking meat. No trees. No grass. The street was stony, lots and lots of little stones jammed and crammed together, black

and grey and white and red. The camels groaned as they walked and their ears flicked crossly. The buildings unwinding above them to the sky shut out the light, it was as dim as lowsun at the bottom of Et-Nogolor. Hekat didn’t like it. The narrow street curved around the base of the city. At last they reached an open place divided into pens. Most of them were full of goats and sheep and cattle, the air was ripe with pish and dung. There were huge black dogs chained at the front of each pen, as mean as the man had ever owned. But these dogs didn’t bark, they just climbed growling to their feet, the hair on their massive backs standing stiff like the spiny collar of the deadly striped lizards that sometimes crawled in from The Anvil. A man sat on a stool nearby. He stood as they approached and shouted at the growling dogs. The dogs dropped to their haunches but didn’t hide their teeth and their shiny white eyes stayed open. Abajai made his camel kneel five paces before the man and got down. Behind him the slave-train stopped too, in a clanking of chains and a grumbling of pack-camels. “Penkeeper,” Abajai said, his purse in his hand. “I am Trader Abajai. How much to pen these slaves and the camels?” The penkeeper was old and bent over. One arm stuck out from his body strangely, as though the bone had broken and never knew its right place after. He wore amulets in his saggy ears and on a thong around his scrawny neck. His grubby clothes were brown and white goathide, rubbed bare and shiny in big patches. Around his sunken middle was strapped a leather purse, its laces strung with charms. Staring up into Abajai’s face he hawked, and spat. “Two silver coins till this time next highsun.” The look on Yagji’s face said that was a lot of money. Hekat thought it sounded a lot. But Abajai nodded undismayed and counted silver into the penkeeper’s hand. As the penkeeper put the money away, Abajai turned. “Obid!” Obid came, dirty and tired. “Put the merchandise in the large pen there,” said Abajai. “Take off its chains, give it feed and water. Camels in the other pen.” He pointed. “There is Hekat on my camel, you see her now. She goes in the pen, she does not leave it.” Obid looked at her. His eyes still writhed with maggot questions but the rest of his face was quiet. “Yes, master.” As Obid withdrew to do his master’s bidding, Abajai crooked a finger. “Hekat.” She slid off the camel and joined him. “Yes, Abajai?” “Yagji and I go to do Trader business. You will stay here. You will attend Obid. That is my nod.” She didn’t want to wait in a pen, or be told what to do by a dirty slave. She wanted to see this city Et-Nogolor, and a godhouse so big its godpost could be spied from a distance in the road. But Abajai’s word was his word. Like dirty Obid, she must obey.

“Yes. Abajai.” With pricky eyes she watched him and Yagji walk away. When they were gone from sight she turned. The penkeeper was watching her, she could feel his hungry gaze. “You not stare at Hekat,” she said, making her voice hiss like a snake. “Hekat belong to Abajai.” The penkeeper’s wrinkled face went still, and his eyes rolled like a goat’s when the knife approaches. He shook his fist at her, then went to help Obid and the guards prod the merchandise into a large empty pen. Hekat smiled, and folded her arms. The pen’s black guard dog stood quietly, its white eyes watching, but did nothing to stop them. When all the slaves had shuffled in, and the guards had taken off their chains and dropped them outside the pen with a clanking thud, Obid crooked his finger at her. “I see you now,” he said. “I see you in this pen.” Scuffing her shoes on the tiny colored stones she walked past the staring dog and the penkeeper and Obid to join the naked slaves. They stared at her in wondering silence, standing as though they still wore chains. Obid pulled the pen’s gate shut and the penkeeper fastened its lock. She heard the penkeeper say to Obid, “Your master’s a mad one, keeping that. Don’t you see its evil eye?” “I do not speak of my master,” said Obid. He sounded sullen. Hekat thought he wanted to agree with the penkeeper but did not dare. “My eye not evil,” she said, loud enough for them to hear her. “My eye beautiful. Hekat beautiful. So the mirror say, and the woman Bisla, and Abajai when he look at me.” The black dog with white eyes growled, and Obid said, “I see you no talking. I say the word. Abajai’s nod.” If she made trouble he’d tell Abajai, and Abajai would be angry. So, no making trouble. She pulled a face at Obid because that was not talking. Obid slitted his eyes at her, then went with the other guards to unpack supplies from the pack-camels so she and the merchandise could eat and drink. The penkeeper returned to his stool and made sure he didn’t look anywhere near her. The floor of the pen was dirt, not colored stones like the road. She’d had too many highsuns of sitting on the camel, her legs itched to run. But the pen was crowded, no room for running, instead she walked around its inside edge and smiled to see Abajai’s slaves cringe as though they were goats and she a prowling sandcat. Like a sandcat she bared her teeth, laughing aloud as they remembered their chains were gone and fought each other to get away. It was a good feeling, to see them fall over in their fear. Obid and the guards fed and watered themselves first. After that they watered the camels, then they carried bowls and cups, bags of food and jars of water into the pen with the merchandise. “Sir!” said Obid, and all the slaves bumped their skinny haunches to the ground and held out their hands for a bowl and a cup. The bowls were filled with bread, cheese and cold roasted corn. Each cup received a ladle’s

worth of water. The slaves’ eyes were greedy, their tongues licked their lips, but they could not eat or drink until Obid gave his nod. Hekat did not sit. She could see Obid wanted to make her but did not dare. He knew if he could make trouble for her she could make it for him, too. He shoved a bowl and cup at her, his face angry. “Eat,” he said, and the merchandise obeyed him. She stared at the bowl, letting her face show her distaste. She had not eaten slave food once since Abajai saved her from the man. She did not want to eat it now, it reminded her of that life she no longer lived, the nameless she-brat she’d left behind in that village. But her belly was empty and her mouth was parched. She drank the water, then put dry bread in her mouth and chewed, and chewed, and swallowed. Outside the pen the penkeeper told Obid and the other guards to help him clean up pish and dung. Obid’s eyes showed he did not want to, but he could not say no. He was a slave, the penkeeper was free. Hekat smiled, and ate her food. On the other side of the pen she heard a scuffle. Grunting. Still chewing, she went to see. One of the slaves had dropped its bowl. Its bread and cheese and corn were in the dirt. Other slaves were stealing them. They would never dare to steal from a bowl, Obid beat slaves who sinned like that. But food in the dirt belonged to whoever picked it up fastest. The slave who’d lost its food was on its hands and knees, it was trying to cover its bits of bread and cheese so the other slaves’ sneaking fingers couldn’t snatch them. Its face was wet, it was wasting water. “No! Mine! You’ve eaten your food, this is mine!” She leaned against the pen’s railings and watched. The slaves were so busy growling and snatching and pinching they didn’t care or try to run away. Very soon there was no bread or cheese or corn kernels left to steal. The hungry slave sat in the dirt with its empty bowl, its face muddy because its eye-water had mixed with the pen’s dust. Surprised, she realized she knew this one. This one was the fat boy from the lizard-roofed village Todorok where the woman Bisla had called her beautiful. But it wasn’t fat anymore. It had used up its fat running on the road behind Abajai and Yagji’s white camels. Beneath the fat, this slave was beautiful. He said, “You could have helped me.” She chose a piece of sticky white cheese and pushed it between her teeth. “Why?” The slave was maybe five seasons older than she was. He looked at her, his beautiful eyes dull with hunger and hurt, then dragged his fingers through the dust, searching for any corn kernels the others had missed. “Slaves should help each other.”

She spat out cheese-rind. “Tcha! Slave? Hekat is not slave. I have name. I wear clothes. I ride with Abajai.” “I have a name too,” the slave said. His voice was low, and unhappy. “My name is Vortka.” She nodded at the chafed places on his wrists and ankles. “You wear chains, not clothes. You run on the road behind the white camels. Your name far behind you.” The slave’s scabby fist struck his chest. “Not in here! In here I am Vortka. I was sold because my father died and the god gave my mother to another man. He had his own sons. He did not want my mother’s son. He wanted gold. He got gold and I got chains. Why do you have clothes? Why do you ride with Abajai?” She shrugged. “I am beautiful.” “You are not so beautiful,” the slave muttered. “The god not see you!” she said, scorched with rage. “The god not see you, stupid slave!” “The god already not see me,” he said, sounding sad again. “The god not see me when it blew out my father’s godspark.” He squeezed water from his eyes with a dirty finger, then smiled at her. “I lied. You are beautiful. What are you called?” There was one piece of bread in the bottom of her bowl, and one piece of cheese. All the corn was eaten. She picked out the bread and threw it at the slave’s feet. “I am called Hekat.” The slave Vortka snatched up the bread and crammed it into his mouth. “The god see you, Hekat,” he said, his lips smeared with dirt. She turned her back and walked away. She did not know why her fingers had picked out the bread and thrown it at that slave. Give her food to a slave?Talk to a slave? Had a scorpion stung her, to do such a thing? She swallowed the last lump of cheese, threw her empty bowl to the ground, then sat down, far from the merchandise, to wait for Abajai’s return. CHAPTER FIVE He came at last, with Yagji and a godspeaker and two other men. Behind them panted a young male slave harnessed to an empty cart. The slave unstrapped itself from the cart’s leather traces, then went away. The men with Abajai wore plain dark robes and Trader charms around their necks. They were maybe a little younger than Abajai, their eyes were sharp. They didn’t seem like men who were easily fooled, or foolish. The godspeaker was young and her robe was the finest Hekat had ever seen, sewn all over with gold amulets and bronze charms and singing silver godbells. Stitched into the robe’s hem were lumps of the

blue stone her snake-eye amulet was carved from, that Abajai had told her was lapis lazuli. The scorpion-shell bound to the godspeaker’s forehead was white. Its claws were painted crimson, its sting banded purple and gold. She had never seen a scorpion-shell so fine. Around her neck the godspeaker wore a chunk of green crystal, large as a fist and threaded onto a leather thong. She pulled it over her head and held it in her hands. When the crystal touched her flesh it flared into life. Abajai’s slaves cried out then, pressing against each other and the pen’s railings. Yagji and the two Traders snatched at their amulets and closed their eyes, trembling. Abajai stood quietly, his gaze calm upon the godspeaker. The godspeaker said, “The godstone sees the hearts of those known to the god.” Abajai bowed his head. “What slaves the god sees I gladly gift to its godspeaker and the godhouse of Et-Nogolor. Come into the pen with me, that the godstone might seek for hearts known to the god.” The godspeaker nodded, then released the crystal to dangle from its leather thong on the end of her finger. There it swung gently, all its blaze dead like a cold fire. Abajai opened the pen’s gate. The black dog cowered as the godspeaker passed by, it did not growl or bite. “Hekat,” Abajai said, not looking at her. “Leave this pen and stand with Yagji.” The godspeaker said, “The god looks at all offerings, Trader Abajai.” “Forgive me, godspeaker,” said Abajai. “This one is not mine to offer.” The godspeaker nodded, and Hekat went to Yagji. For once he touched her, his fingers taking hold of her shoulder. He felt frightened. Abajai clapped his hands. “Obid!” Obid came and poked the slaves with his spear until they stood in a line around the pen’s edge. The godspeaker walked to the nearest one and held up the leather thong so the crystal was in easy reach. “The god sees you,” she said. “Take the crystal.” Panting with fear, the boy clutched the crystal but nothing happened. “The god sees you,” said the godspeaker. “But not your heart.” She took back the crystal and gave it to the next slave. “The god sees you,” she said. “Take the crystal.” Whimpering, the woman took it. For the second time, the crystal did not wake. “The god sees you, but not your heart,” said the godspeaker, and moved to the next slave. Hekat had counted, there were thirty-seven slaves in Abajai’s caravan. One by one the godspeaker gave them the crystal and said her words and waited. One by one, the god did not see any hearts. If the godspeaker was angry or disappointed her face did not show it. She gave the crystal to the slave calling himself Vortka. When that slave’s fingers closed around the rock it came alive in a blaze of light. The slave Vortka gasped, and stared without words at the godspeaker.

“The god sees you,” said the godspeaker. “The god sees your heart.” She took back the crystal. “Stand apart from the unseen. You belong to the god until it strikes you dead in its eye.” Dazed, the slave Vortka stumbled away from the others. Hekat looked at Abajai, to see how he felt about the god taking one of his slaves. She couldn’t tell. His face was quiet, and so was the scarlet scorpion in his cheek. Yagji’s face she could tell like the open sky. He was pleased to please the god, he was sorry to lose more coin. The godstone saw no other slave’s heart after Vortka’s. The godspeaker put the leather thong with its threaded green crystal around her neck and clicked fingers at the chosen slave Vortka. He followed her out of the pen and waited, looking only at the ground. “The god sees your gift, Trader Abajai,” said the godspeaker. “The god is pleased. Ask one thing of the god and that one thing shall be granted.” As Yagji gasped, Abajai bowed to the godspeaker. “The god is good. The one thing I ask, for myself, my fellow Trader and our possessions, is passage from Et-Nogolor to Et-Raklion in a godspeaker caravan.” The godspeaker nodded. “Granted. Go to the godgate wayhouse when you are ready to travel. You must wait there until the next godspeaker caravan departs.” Abajai bowed again. “The god see you in its eye, godspeaker.” “The god see you also, Trader Abajai,” the godspeaker replied. She walked away then, with the slave Vortka a pace behind her. “Obid,” said Abajai. “Fetch your fellow guards and the camel-boy.” As Obid did as he was told, Abajai turned to the two Traders waiting silently for the god’s business to be done. “Trader Ederog, Yagji will show you our camels.” Yagji and Trader Ederog went to haggle over the beasts, and Obid returned with the other guards and the camel-boy. Abajai nodded to him and one other, almost as tall and strong as Obid. “Stand away,” he said. “You remain in my possession. You others stand with the merchandise.” Watching the guards Abajai no longer wanted, Hekat saw their eyes go wet with fear and sorrow. But they said nothing to Abajai, they obeyed his nod. They were slaves. “Trader Rogiv?” said Abajai. “Here is our merchandise. Inspect it. I invite you.” Trader Rogiv looked at the waiting slaves, then turned and pointed. “Trader Abajai, what about that one?” Hekat held her breath, she stared at Abajai. Trader Rogiv’s pointing finger was a stab in the heart. “That one belongs to me,” said Abajai. “She is not for sale.” His deep dark voice was cool, and strong. In his face a warning not to argue. Hekat felt herself melt inside.I will not sell you in Et-Nogolor . So he had told her, and so it was proved. He was Abajai, his word was his word.

Then it was Trader haggling, as the camels and the slaves were sold. When it was over and the Et-Nogolor Traders had departed to fetch for Abajai the promised coin, Obid and the other slave began unloading the camels and packing all their goods into the empty cart. Yagji supervised them for a small time, then returned to Abajai. “Aieee, Aba,” he said, pouting with displeasure. “Must we travel with a godspeaker caravan? There are somany of them in a caravan. You know what it will be like. They live and breathe and sweat out the god. To be close like that, it makes me frightened! I lose my appetite, I cannot eat. Would you have me skin and bone by the time we reach Et-Raklion?” “Better skin and bone in Et-Raklion than dead on the road between here and there with all your plumpness bleeding,” said Abajai. “The god saw us, Yagji, when it sent us that chosen slave. No other price would buy us the protection of a godspeaker caravan. If the other warlords should send warriors against Et-Nogolor only godspeakers will be safe on the road to Et-Raklion. You know it, we have seen trouble like this before.” “And had hoped to never see it again!” cried Yagji. “Warlords fighting are bad for business!” “Yes,” said Abajai, and patted his shoulder. “But do not dwell on that. We have good profit from this caravan, and business at home that must be tended, remember. We have been many godmoons on the road.” Yagji sighed. “Yes. I know. Our villa is likely a tumbled ruin, that Retoth cannot care for it properly without my strict supervision.” “You know he can,” said Abajai, laughing. “He always does. But we will both be relieved to see it again.” The Et-Nogolor Traders returned with their payment. When the sale was completed and the money safely added to the coin box, Abajai nodded to Obid and the other slave. They harnessed themselves to the heavy cart, and followed Abajai and Yagji away from the slave pens. Walking between the Traders, Hekat looked up. “Abajai, why did the god see that slave?” “So it might serve in the godhouse.” She frowned. “Serve how?” “That is not our business.” “That slave,” she said, after a moment. “He had a name. He told me.” Abajai tugged her godbraids. “Slaves have no names, Hekat. Not until a master gives one, with the giving of the scarlet slave-braid.” She smiled inside. She had given herself a name, and she wore no scarlet slave-braid. She was as special as the slave Vortka, gone to serve the god. “If I held the godstone, Abajai. Would it see me? See my heart? Tell the god?” Yagji snorted. “Your heart, monkey? My Hooli’s heart will be seen by the god before yours.”

“The god sees all hearts,” said Abajai. “Godstones are for godspeakers, who are less than the god. Now be silent, Hekat. It is a long walk to Et-Nogolor’s godgate.” She was silent because he had said she must be silent, but she still didn’t understand. She wanted to know how the godstone knew to burn, or stay dead. To know what would happen to that special slave Vortka who had gone to serve in Et-Nogolor’s godhouse. How he would serve, and what the god wanted from him. That slave Vortka had called her Hekat. He had called her beautiful. She had given him bread. Surprised, she realized she felt sorry, that she would not see him again. They made their slow way along the crowded streets towards the godgate, which Abajai said was on the far-distant other side of Et-Nogolor city. Hekat walked close beside him, she had never seen so many people in one place before, the noise of them battered her ears, their stink clogged her nose. They walked and they walked, and came across an open place where there were tall red wooden godposts set into the cobbled ground. A skinny slave was nailed alive to one of them with his belly cut open and all his gizzards spilling free. His ankles were broken, his eyes were put out. He wore no clothes, just a blanket of flies. Hekat knew he lived only because of his horrible moaning, his begging for the god to let him die. She felt her belly clutch tight, she tasted muck in her mouth. This was worse than the boy who put his body in the village well. This was the worst thing she had ever seen. “He tried to run away,” said Abajai. “The god abhors wicked runaway slaves. This is their fate, Hekat. The godspeakers smite them for the god.” She nodded, she had no words for the dying slave in his tunic of flies. They kept on walking. Et-Nogolor’s godgate was an anthill place, with wagons and carts and oxen and slaves and godspeakers coming and going without cease, and pens for many complaining animals. The air was heavy with smells and smoke and sounds. The gates themselves stayed shut, huge black scorpions towering over the tallest man. They looked like they could sting. They would not open until the caravan was ready to leave for Et-Raklion. The wayhouse for travelers intending to journey with the godspeaker caravan was small and spare, with no-one wanting to travel except Abajai, Yagji and Hekat. There was nothing to do there but eat, and sleep, and wait. Each day at highsun they stood by its godpost to watch a godspeaker ask the god if the time had come for the caravan to leave Et-Nogolor. The question was asked by sacrificing a golden cockerel, burning its entrails in a scorpion bowl and breathing deep of the sacred smoke. If the god’s answer was no, the godspeaker fell to the ground twitching and foaming and drumming bare heels on the ground. Three times now they had witnessed the asking. Three times the god had answered no. The godspeaker who came to make sacrifice on the fourth highsun was naked except for a loincloth and the scorpion-shell bound to his brow. His scorpion sting marks were all on show, angry red welts covering the dark skin of his belly and back. Many of them looked fresh. Hekat remembered the village godspeaker with only five, so old they’d turned dull and muddy. The village godspeaker was nothing, a

dried-up husk, compared to the godspeakers of Et-Nogolor. She was angry to think such a shrunken, unbitten old man had frightened her so much . . . and surprised the god would accept him as its speaker. Although, to be fair, the god had not had many men to choose from in the village. The Et-Nogolor godspeaker sprinkled his circle of sacred sand. It was crimson, the color of golden cockerel blood, and it sparkled strangely on the stony ground in front of the wayhouse. At the circle’s completion the sand burst into life, leaping black tongues of night-cold flame. Though he’d seen the god wake over and over, Yagji swallowed a little shriek and kissed his snake-fang amulet. The godspeaker picked up the golden cockerel and his sacrifice knife. Like the others before it the beautiful bird died soundless, slit from crop to tail in a single blow. Its entrails slipped into the waiting scorpion bowl and became hot fire. As the sacred circle’s black flames danced around him the godspeaker fell to his knees and plunged his face into the offering’s greasy blue smoke, breathing deeply, his eyes rolled back in his head. He did not fall twitching and foaming to the ground. “Aieee!” squealed Yagji. “The god has answered!” “The god always answers,” Abajai scolded. But he was smiling. “I know, I know,” said Yagji, impatient. “But this time it has answeredyes !” The godspeaker breathed in the last of the sacrifice smoke, breathed it out, and stood. From his left hand dangled the gutted golden cockerel, from his right the bloodied knife. “The god speaks!” he cried to the distant sky. The whites of his eyes had turned a greasy blue and the scorpion bites on his body glowed like living coals. “The caravan to Et-Raklion departs at newsun!” He threw the sacrifice into the air. As the golden cockerel’s feathers caught fire, burning it into nothingness, the sacred circle’s black flames roared higher than the godspeaker’s head, then vanished, the last of the sacred sand consumed. “And a good thing too,” said Yagji, watching the almost naked godspeaker walk away carrying his knife and his scorpion bowl. “If I pray hard I might survive one more night in that dreadful wayhouse. But only one. And only if the god is good!” Hekat hid her face so Yagji wouldn’t see her disgust. She had a bed in the wayhouse too. It was the most wonderful thing she’d ever slept on, with softness beneath her and too many blankets. She’d never dreamed there could be too many blankets. Let Yagji sleep on a baked earth floor under a table, or chained to a wall where dogs could sniff him, dogs that longed to devour his bones, and a man to beat him if he was so cold and stiff on waking he could hardly walk. Let Yagji sleep like that and then complain of blankets and a bed. He was a stupid, stupid man. Abajai patted him on the shoulder. “Hush yourself, Yagji. It is known the god is always good.” As the god desired, the godspeaker caravan left Et-Nogolor next newsun. Hekat rode with Abajai and Yagji at the rear, in an open wagon pulled by a team of stolid oxen. Behind them, Obid and his fellow

slave hauled the cart carrying Abajai and Yagji’s possessions and wealth. She watched Obid sweat and strain and smiled so he could see it. No more jabby spear, Obid. No more eyes full of maggot questions. He was just a slave now, while she was still precious and beautiful. There were ten Et-Nogolor godspeakers in the carvan. Six drove covered carts laden with mysterious godspeaker goods, one drove an open cart full of caged birds for each newsun sacrifice. The other three walked. The sun climbed higher, the caravan passed the high-walled barracks where Abajai said Nogolor warlord’s warriors lived, it passed farms, and orchards, and pastures full of grazing cows. Hekat thought the land looked fat but Abajai and Yagji frowned at each other and called it sad. Two fingers past highsun they came upon a band of warriors riding towards Et-Nogolor city. Some wore red-and-black feathers in their hair and hunting birds on their leather chests, but others covered their godbraids with caps of spotted grey catskin, long tails bouncing down their straight backs, and on their leather chests brilliant green stones picked out a snarling cat face. Hekat shifted on her wagon seat to watch the straight-backed warriors ride by. They did not yield the road to the godspeakers like the other few travelers they had encountered, but they did drop into single file and slow from a canter to a trot. So fierce, so proud, she thought they were beautiful. Yagji leaned close. “Aba, Aba, what can this mean? The falcon and the woodcat riding together? Et-Nogolor and Et-Bajadek are not friends!” “Shhh,” hissed Abajai, glaring. “Wait until we are alone!” Hekat counted sixty riders, half were birds and half were cats. When the last warrior had trotted sedately past them and they were once more cantering towards distant Et-Nogolor city, Abajai let out a sigh. “Here is a tangle, Yagji.” “Atangle ?” said Yagji, and clutched his green snake amulet. “Aba, it’sdisaster . Why do warriors of Bajadek and Nogolor warlords ride together? Bajadek warlord is a sworn enemy to Et-Raklion, and Raklion warlord is to mate with Et-Nogolor’s Daughter! Nogolor warlord must not smile at Bajadek warlord, their warriors must not ride shoulder to fist along the road!” Pinch-faced, Abajai toyed with a beaded godbraid. “Bajadek warlord has two sons and bears no love for either,” he said slowly, as though thinking aloud. “He is a lusty man, he could yet sire a third son worth loving, but—” “The god took his wife and besides, she was old,” said Yagji. “Aba!” His voice was a shocked whisper. “No! Surely not!” The scorpion in Abajai’s cheek rippled. “I think so.” “ButAba —” Abajai smoothed his robe. “If Raklion warlord dies sonless, Bajadek warlord can make a claim on his lands. I suspect he does not trust that a son sired by Raklion upon Et-Nogolor’s Daughter will die, like all his other sons have died. I suspect Bajadek warlord reasons it is better that Raklion does not mate with the Daughter at all. Better thathe have her, kill Raklion when the Daughter’s theft leads to war, claim Et-Raklion lands as his own and afterwards sire a son worth loving.” He nodded. “It is a sound strategy.”

“But Aba, Et-Nogolor’s Daughter isgodpromised to Raklion. Nogolor warlordcannot give her to Bajadek.” “No?” said Abajai, and tugged his godbraids. “I wonder, Yagji. Truly, I wonder.” Confused, Hekat slid along the wagon seat towards him and touched his sleeve. “Abajai? What is godpromised?” “Promised in the presence of the god,” Yagji snapped. “In the godhouse of Et-Raklion. Et-Nogolor’s high godspeaker himself sealed the oath with sacrifice before the warlords and Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker Nagarak and selected witnesses.” He preened a little. “Aba and I represented the Traders.” She was not interested in Yagji’s silly boastings. “What ishigh godspeaker?” Yagji rolled his eyes. “Stupid monkey.Abajai . . .” Abajai lifted his hand, frowning. Yagji fell silent, his feelings hurt. Hekat said nothing but inside she smiled. Yagji had lost, and she had won. She always won. She was precious and beautiful. Abajai said, “A high godspeaker rules all the godspeakers of a warlord’s lands.” “Who rules high godspeaker?” Yagji tittered. “The god, of course, you silly brat.” She ignored Yagji. “Like caravan, Abajai? Obid rule slaves, Abajai rule Obid?” Abajai smiled. “Clever Hekat. Exactly like that.” Pleased with his praise she smiled back and thought,So this is the world. Slaves, and rulers. Anyone not a ruler is a slave. I will remember that . She said, “Abajai. Godpromised means the god wants Et-Nogolor she-brat for Raklion warlord?” He pursed his lips. “That is one way of putting it.” “Then how can Nogolor warlord give she-brat to Bajadek warlord? The god cannot want Et-Nogolor she-brat for Raklionand Bajadek. Which warlord the god want for Et-Nogolor she-brat?” “That depends on which warlord’s high godspeaker you ask,” said Yagji, under his breath. Abajai gave Yagji a dark look, then shook his head at her. “Hush, Hekat. It is the god’s business. Do not question its workings in the world, that way lies madness.” Yes. Madness. If high godspeakers spoke the god’s want, then how could they speak different words? Was thegod mad, not knowing which want it truly wanted? Petrified, not breathing, she waited for the god to strike her dead for asking such a question. The god did not, so she asked another question, inside her head where only it could hear her. If the god did know its want, then did Et-Nogolor high godspeakerlie when he said the she-brat should

go to Raklion warlord? Or was the lie it should go to Bajadek? Why would the god let a godspeaker lie? She did not know, the god did not answer. Abajai would know but she didn’t dare ask him. She would wait, and in time perhaps the god would tell her. When it wanted to. If it knew. Yagji chewed his lip, glancing ahead at the walking godspeakers. “I wonder if Raklion warlord knows Bajadek’s warriors ride freely in the lands of Et-Nogolor?” he asked, softly so they might not hear him. “I wonder—” Abajai kicked him. “You wonder too much, Yagji! Hold your prattling tongue!” Chastened to silence Yagji stared and stared, his eyes slowly filling with water. “I am sorry, Aba,” he whispered at last. “I am weary, I am homesick. I long for our villa in dear Et-Raklion.” With a deep sigh, Abajai patted his cheek. “I know, Yagji. I am homesick too. I will be well pleased when this caravan is over. Do not weep, friend. We will be home soon.” It took the godspeaker caravan thirty-seven highsuns to reach the lands of Raklion warlord. In that time they saw warriors of Et-Bajadek five more times. Abajai and Yagji said nothing about them, they closed their eyes and pretended not to see. Hekat knew better than to speak on that. When at last she saw Et-Raklion she knew then what a fat land truly looked like. So much water! Streams and lakes and rivers and bubbling springs, so much green grass, countless fruit-laden branches and fields of grain, fat grazing cattle and sheep, singing birds and well-fed wildlife. She understood that Abajai and Yagji were right, the rest of Mijak was turning brown. She did not want to think what might happen when all the green was gone from the other warlords’ lands. As they slowly journeyed, caged in their uncomfortable wagon, Abajai continued to teach her. He gave her all the words in his possession, so many words she thought they must fall from her mouth every time she opened it or blow out through her nose whenever she sneezed. He bade her use them to talk of her life in the savage north, the caravan they traveled with, each newsun sacrifice, the road, the sky, the clouds, the trees, the flowers, the fruit, the crops and the herds of beasts in their open pastures. The villages they passed by and the harmless travelers they encountered. Everything she could see and remember she could talk about, said Abajai, so she did, because that was his want. It was her want too, she would be more than a village goat bleating and shitting and waiting for the knife. Twenty-three highsuns after crossing the border into Et-Raklion she was asleep on the wagon’s hard jolting floor and dreaming again of the man’s bone-crunching dogs when Yagji’s finger poked her ribs and his voice said, crossly, “Lazy monkey! Open your eyes and look upon perfection! We have reached Et-Raklion city!” The dogs’ slavering growls fading, she opened her eyes. The sky was dimming, only a finger remained till lowsun. She sat up, ignoring the creaks and moans in her muscles. Abajai walked beside the wagon, he never tired. Even though his face was quiet it seemed to her that it was shouting. His strong dark face and

its scarlet scorpion, shouting with happiness to see the city. She looked ahead, where he was looking. Where Yagji was looking, stupid wasted water rolling down his fat cheeks. “Oh,” she said, and felt a silly pricky burning in her own eyes. Her heart heaved and twisted and split wide open, all the blood in her turning red hot. Raklion warlord’s city was beautiful. Unlike Et-Nogolor, squatting like half a melon on a plate and skulking in man-made shadows, the city Et-Raklion spread around the base of a towering hill, which rose resplendent from the green and growing plain as though the god’s own fist had punched upwards from beneath the earth’s skin. The road they traveled led straight to the city gatehouse, then into the city itself. Bright lamps and torches burned in myriad dwellings, their warm flames lighting pale cream rock, and blood-red rock, and rock as green as the fields of growing wheat. So many roofs in the city Et-Raklion, Hekat could not count them all. Trees, too, heavy-laden with blossoms. On the perfumed breeze a trilling of songbirds, and silver godbells calling down the night. Seeing Et-Raklion city once, Hekat knew this wondrous place owned her. And she was content to be its possession, until the god closed her eyes and gave her bones to the hungry dark. “Ah, Et-Raklion,” sighed Yagji, his voice quivering. “The god is good, that I see you again.” Abajai’s stern face was gentle with smiling. “See Raklion’s Pinnacle, Hekat, gift of the god. There is the godhouse on its peak, and its godpost reaching for the world’s ceiling, its godmoon and its stars. It is the greatest godhouse in all of Mijak.” He pointed. “There below it, the warlord’s palace. And below the palace at the Pinnacle’s base, within strong walls, the barracks where his warriors live, guarding the warlord. Keeping everyone safe.” She looked where he pointed, and marveled how the palace grew out of the hillside. Felt awe at the height and spread of the godhouse. Et-Raklion’s godhouse made the godhouse Et-Nogolor look small. Looknothing . Truly the god loved the lands of Et-Raklion. “The god, the warlord, his mighty warriors, like eagles they keep watch over the city.” Abajai crooked a finger. “Take off your sandals and walk with me, Hekat. Feel the rich cool soil of Et-Raklion beneath your feet.” Willingly she walked with him, and so did Yagji, still sniveling. They walked right up to the gates of Et-Raklion, and as they walked Hekat felt herself smile. Home, home, her heart sang softly.Here I am, god. I am home . CHAPTER SIX The caravan’s senior godspeaker joined them at the gates to Et-Raklion. Hekat felt her skin crawl but she did not give him ground. Showing fear was foolish. The city Gatekeeper was a tall woman with muscles like a man and godbraids reaching below her knees.

She had a blue lizard tattooed over her face; its eyes were her eyes, lazily blinking. She looked at the carved birds pinned to the senior godspeaker’s robes and nodded. “Godspeaker of Et-Nogolor,” she said, hands lightly fisted on her leather-clad hips. Her earlobes stretched low with the dangling weight of many amulets. Her nose was pierced six times. The lizard’s tail caressed her chin, and the single pink jewel studded in it. “State your business in Raklion’s city.” The senior godspeaker looked down his nose at the city Gatekeeper. “Our business is the god’s business, and the business of Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker Nagarak.” The Gatekeeper snapped her fingers, and a small he-brat leapt out of the gatehouse’s shadows. “Make haste to the godhouse,” she told it. “Tell the first godspeaker you see that there are visitors from godhouse Et-Nogolor, craving Nagarak high godspeaker’s permission to enter.” The brat pressed a fist to its brown woollen chest and darted up the roadway leading from the gatehouse into the city proper. The Gatekeeper nodded at the godspeaker caravan. “Nagarak high godspeaker will see you in his time. Until then, godspeakers, you must wait.” The godspeaker’s eyes narrowed. “It is not our custom to be kept waiting.” “Alas,” said the Gatekeeper. “It is my custom to obey my warlord, and the decrees of Nagarak high godspeaker.” Displeased but thwarted, the senior godspeaker of Et-Nogolor returned to his caravan, and the Gatekeeper turned her attention to Abajai. “Trader Abajai,” she said, her voice all warmth and smiling now. “Trader Yagji. Long has been your absence from us.” “And many tales to tell,” replied Abajai. “We will sit over sadsa and I will tell them that you may laugh and wonder. We may pass in your good graces, Baruve Gatekeeper?” Hekat stared, unflinching, as the Gatekeeper’s curious lizard eyes considered her. “In my good graces always, Trader Abajai,” the Gatekeeper said. “Do you require a litter? I can send a brat for one, if you like.” “Thanks, but no litter,” said Abajai, before Yagji could speak. “To walk the streets of Et-Raklion after so long an absence is the god’s great gift.” The Gatekeeper snapped her fingers a second time, and another brown-wool boy appeared. “Take this brat, Trader. It will light your way home.” There were many torches burning in the wall of the gatehouse. She tugged one free and thrust it at the he-brat. “Send it back when you are done with its service.” As Yagji withdrew to fetch Obid, the other slave and their cart, Abajai took a purse from his robe pocket and gave it to the Gatekeeper. “A Trader’s thanks.” She pocketed the purse, her tattooed blue lizard leaping as she smiled. “The god sees you, Trader. It likes to see a generous man.” Yagji returned, their possessions at his heels. Abajai nodded at the Gatekeeper, put his fingers to Hekat’s elbow, and they followed the he-brat with its flaming torch through the wide gateway into the

city. “What does this mean, Aba?” Yagji whispered, as they stopped before the gateway godpost and its offering bowl, to gift the god with exquisite amulets and four fat purses of coin. “It is not like Nagarak to keep Et-Nogolor godspeakers waiting at the city gates. Do you think he knows—” “Tcha!” said Abajai, his voice a warning. “Not here, not now. Let us keep walking. You there, gate-brat—to the Traders district.” The sun was gone now, the godmoon and his wife striding the night sky together. Obid and the other slave’s harsh breathing was loud in the hush as Hekat walked in silence between Abajai and Yagji. Flowering trees lined both edges of the smooth pavestones beneath their feet. Floating on the stirring night air, faint strains of music, of voices, and still the ringing of silver godbells. A teasing aroma of spicy meat. “The Dining district dances,” said Yagji, sounding mournful. “We could stop and eat, Aba. Roast lamb, sweet wine. I pine for something other than godcakes and ale.” “No,” said Abajai. “I want a private night within our own walls before venturing to visit with Trader friends, Yagji. There will be questions we have not decided how to answer.” “But what if the villa has no food for us?” Yagji fretted. “That Retoth and the rest, the worthless slaves, they have likely eaten us out of all provisions.” Abajai laughed. “Retoth knows better. He knows your belly when it returns from caravan.And he knows well to keep the villa in readiness for our sudden arrival.” Hekat plucked at Abajai’s sleeve. “Who is Retoth?” “Our villa’s chief slave. You will mind him, Hekat, for his word is my word,” said Abajai, looking down at her. “If you disobey him Yagji will have his wish to see you beaten.” Yagji tchut-tchutted under his panting breath. “I should have had my wish many highsuns before now.” “Save your air for walking,” said Abajai, kindly enough. “The Traders district is a distance yet.” Yagji groaned. “You should have called for a litter, Aba. A fine thing if I fall to the ground with a spasm at my own doorstep after so many godmoons on the road!” “After traveling so far on a camel and in wagons, a little walking will do you good!” said Abajai, lightly scolding. “And think how it will spice your appetite!” “My appetite needs no spicing, Aba. The godcakes of Et-Nogolor are the worst I’ve ever tasted!” For the first time since she and the fat Trader had met, Hekat thought that he was right. “What amuses, Hekat?” said Abajai. She would have liked to hold his hand, but that wasn’t a gesture for her to make. He must touch first, always. She smiled at him instead. “I am pleased to be here, Abajai. Et-Raklion is the city of cities.”

“Tchut!” said Yagji. “Can it be possible? For once the monkey speaks words worth hearing.” Abajai just nodded, and kept on walking. It took a long time to reach Abajai’s villa. Once they reached the city proper they saw other people in the streets, on foot or traveling in litters carried by strong tall slaves. Abajai and Yagji were recognized over and over; many times they were stopped and welcomed home with smiles and invitations to share food and wine and all the gossip. “Let us take the discreet way home,” said Yagji at last. “Or we won’t see our bed before newsun, and I’m tired!” So Abajai dismissed the gatehouse he-brat, because now the roads were lit with torches, and they walked along narrow side-streets into the heart of the Traders district, a section of the city almost halfway between its gatehouse and the base of Raklion’s Pinnacle. The Traders district was peaceful, sweet-smelling. Every street was lined with dwellings, some with grass and trees and flowers between their closed doors and the cobbles, others hidden behind stone walls with doors built into them. Some of the houses had beautiful slaves by the doors. When they thought Hekat and Abajai and Yagji approached them they stood very tall, only to slump when she and Abajai and Yagji walked by, Obid and the other slave puffing behind them with the cart. She wished she knew what they were for. Abajai said, “Where there is a slave, Hekat, either the master is out and the slave will say so, or he is willing to see a visitor and the slave will give that visitor entrance.” Aieee, he was like the god to read her mind so easily. “And if there is no slave, the master wishes to be alone?” “Exactly so,” said Abajai. “No civilized person will argue with a slave, or attempt an unattended door. Such an arrangement prevents unpleasantness.” She nodded, sighing. “Aieee, Abajai. Hekat has so much to learn.” He tugged her godbraids. “And Hekat is learning. You speak beautifully now. I am pleased with you.” She gifted him with her widest smile. Pleasing Abajai was all she asked for. At last they came to a blue wooden door set into a high wall of pale cream stone. The most beautiful slave stood guard before it. He was tall and muscled, clad in black silk pantaloons, with a fistful of amulets round his neck and his bare chest tattooed with snakes and lizards. His scarlet slave’s godbraid was heavy with godbells. He saw them and dropped hard to his knees, his face lighting up in a radiant smile. “Master Abajai! Master Yagji! The god sees you, masters! It sees you in its eye!” “Stand, stand, Nim,” said Abajai, laughing. “And open the door. Your caravanning masters are finally come home.” The slave Nim leapt to his feet and flung open the blue wooden door so they might enter the villa’s

grounds. “Retoth will weep to see you, masters! Everything is beautiful, as you left it!” “And what of Hooli?” Yagji demanded. “Does Hooli thrive?” The slave bowed low. “Master Yagji, he thrives.” As Yagji made silly happy sounds, Abajai gestured at Obid and the other slave. “Take these ones and the cart to the villa’s rear entrance, Nim. Help them unload the coin boxes into the strong room, then see them to the slaves’ quarters for food and a mattress. We will receive no visitors tonight.” “Yes, Master Abajai!” said the slave Nim. Hekat could see him wondering about her, his gaze kept slipping sideways to stare, but he didn’t say a word. He just stood back so she and Abajai and Yagji could pass by. “Hmm,” said Yagji, grudging, as they walked up a paved torchlit pathway to the villa. “It would appear my gardens haven’tdied .” Hekat marveled at Yagji’s gardens, stretching as far as the largest goat pasture in the village. Flowers rioted in perfumed profusion, pink and yellow and pale blue and mauve. There were fountains, bubbling, their deep bowls filled with flitting green-and-silver striped fish. Delicate trees with silver branches and whiskery seed pods drooped towards the dark green grass. More torches flamed from tall poles. There was a crimson godpost, topped with a black scorpion. A vivid carved snake sinuously embraced it; the fat drop of poison at the tip of each exposed fang was a green gemstone larger than her own clenched fist. Hekat clutched her snake-eye amulet, amazed. “The godsnake of Et-Raklion,” said Abajai. “It is our symbol, given by the god itself. Proof that Et-Raklion is its most blessed city.” Ahead, the villa. Built of that same pale cream stone, perhaps one hundred tall man-paces wide, its roof was tiled in black and gold. The enormous double front doors were painted black and bound with bronze. Hekat stared. Aieee, it was beautiful! The paved path ended at four wide stone steps. As Abajai put his foot on the first one the doors were thrown open. “Master Abajai! Master Yagji!” Another slave, wrapped head to toe in blue and golden fabric. His head bristled with godbraids like a spiny zikzik, shy sly predator of the desert. Over his robes he wore a green silk shawl, edged around with tinkling amulets. He wasn’t a young man, Hekat realized. He was just well fed, and that made him look younger. “Yes, Retoth,” said Abajai. “Your masters are home.” “And we’re starving,” announced Yagji. “Get out of the doorway, you stupid man, and find us some food at once!” Retoth bowed low, then retreated into the villa. “Of course, of course, master. Baths are being prepared for you now. I have roused the kitchen and your chambers are being scented as we speak.” Hekat followed Abajai and Yagji inside, and Retoth closed the double doors behind them. Stranded,

struck dumb, she looked around her, at the shiny blue-green stone floor, at the green walls with images of people and places bound inside golden borders and hung from hooks, at the gold and silver tables covered in carved-stone people and animals, at the bowls and bowls of freshly cut flowers. Inside the villa was light as day, there were so many lamps and candles burning. “This is Hekat,” said Abajai to Retoth. “You and I will talk of her in due course. For now she goes below, but not with the others.” “Yes, master,” said Retoth, smiling as though he knew a secret. He clapped his hands, and moments later a short woman slave with greying godbraids and lines on her face appeared. Her robes were wool, and dyed a soft yellow. “Nada! Take this Hekat below the stairs. See to her comfort and settle her in the single chamber.” “Abajai?” said Hekat, uncertain. “Go,” said Abajai. “Keep your counsel and obey Retoth and this slave Nada, or you will displease me.” Displease Abajai? She would rather throw herself from the top of Raklion’s Pinnacle. The slave Nada turned and walked away. Following, Hekat was proud her eyes did not waste water. The slave Nada led her along a wide lamplit passageway to the back of the villa, then down a long steep flight of twisting stairs to more lamplit passageways and many rooms. Hekat stared, astonished. Rooms below the ground? She had never heard of such a thing. She would ask Abajai what that meant when she saw him at newsun; there was no point asking the woman Nada. She was a slave. What would she know? The slave Nada took her to a bath chamber, where the water flowed from bronze fish-heads stuck on the wall. Amazing! While the bath filled, the slave Nada undid Hekat’s godbraids. Then she pointed to a cupboard against the wall. “There is soap and a sponge. I will fetch you a clean robe.” Not afraid this time, Hekat stripped off her filthy clothes and slid into the bath. She washed her body, she washed her hair, all crinkly from the godbraids. The soap foam stung her eyes but she didn’t care. She was clean, she was clean, she would never be dirty again. She lived in Abajai’s villa. It was beautiful, and so was she. The slave Nada returned with towels and a brush and a dark blue robe. Hekat climbed out of the bath, water streaming down her lovely clean skin. As the slave Nada waited, she dried herself, pulled on the robe, then dragged the brush through her hair over and over until it was smooth and barely damp. The slave Nada led her to a lamplit kitchen, where she sat at a table with four slaves who stared at her and would have spoken, but the slave Nada frowned them to silence. Not caring she was stared at, Hekat ate hot meat and drank cool sadsa. When her belly was filled to bursting she followed the slave Nada out of the kitchen, past other rooms and two more staring slaves until they reached a small chamber with a bed in it, but no windows. “Sleep,” said the slave Nada, holding the door wide so light from the passageway beyond spilled inside. “I will fetch you one finger after newsun. There is a pishpot under the bed, if you need it.” As the chamber door closed, Hekat climbed under the blankets. Her head touched the soft pillows, her body sighed, and within a heartbeat she was sucked from the waking world and into sleep, where for once the dream dogs did not find her.

Hekat woke before the slave Nada came for her. Someone had put a lit candle beside the bed. By its small light she used the pishpot and soon after that the slave woman arrived, with a tunic, leggings and shoes for her to wear. Hekat dressed, and walked with her to the kitchen where the slave Retoth was waiting. “Where is Abajai?” she asked him. “Abajai and Hekat eat breakfast together.” The eight slaves eating at the kitchen table made little noises of surprise and stared at her with stupid faces. Nada stared, and the big kitchen slave in charge of cooking. He stopped stirring a pot hanging from a hook above the firecoals, wiped his arm across his face and looked at her as though she was demonstruck. It seemed the whole room held its breath. The slave Retoth smiled. “Poor child. The master has told me you come from the savage north. Forget that place now. Forget the caravan upon the road. This is Et-Raklion, we are civilized here. We are civilized in this house, where the master’s lightest breath is law. It is his want that you attend me. Do I go to him now and say you will not?” An arrogant man, this slave Retoth. She would speak to Abajai of him when next they sat together. Until then, she could play his stupid game. She shook her head. “No, Retoth. Hekat attends you.” He smiled again, his eyes were watchful. “Good. Eat now, then Nada will show you the places in this house where you might put your feet. Put your feet in these places only, not in the places she does not show you. Then you will be properly godbraided. Afterwards I will come for you, the master has tasked me with tasks for you.” Hekat looked at him. “All of this is Abajai’s want?” “Every word I speak reflects the master’s want,” said Retoth. “Of that you can be certain.” “I am certain of Abajai,” she told Retoth. More shocked noises from the watching slaves. She looked at them sideways, feeling contempt. Goat people. Bleating like goats, huddling like goats. They would make me small, the slaves in this house. I am not small. I wear no slave-braid. I named myself. I call him Abajai, he is not my master. Abajai is my friend. Retoth departed, she ate hot cornmush, she frightened the stupid slaves with her eyes. The slave Nada took her back to her chamber, four more women slaves joined them. They brought a tall stool, six burning lamps, combs, brushes, and a wooden box full of beads and amulets and tiny silver godbells. Hekat sat on the stool and the slave women stood round her, godbraiding her hair. When they were finished it was after highsun. She slid off the tall stool and shook her head. The godbraids reached just past her shoulder blades, the beads and amulets rattled and clattered, the tiny silver godbells sang; she would make a pretty noise wherever she walked, people would hear her before they saw her, they would say to each other,Who is this girl-child with singing silver godbells in her godbraided hair? She would tell them:I am Hekat, precious and beautiful .

After the highsun meal, Retoth said to her, “Come.” He did not own her, she was not his dog. She stayed at the table. “Where do we go?” “To the Merchants district. To the bazaar.” “What do we buy there?” “You will see.Come .” It was Abajai’s want she play Retoth’s stupid game, so she followed him up the stairs and along the passageways towards the villa’s front doors. Within one closed room she heard sharp raised voices. She felt her heart leap. “That is Abajai,” she said, and stopped. “I will see him.” Retoth slowed, turning. “Not before he sends for you. The master meets important men this day. He has no time for bratty children. Come.” She folded her arms. “I am not a bratty child. I am Hekat.” He halted, and pointed his finger. “I am chief slave of this house! I can beat you if you do not obey.” She speared him with a look. “No, Retoth. You cannot touch me.” Retoth’s hands became fists. Ugly feelings struggled in his eyes. She knew he wanted to unfold his fingers and slap her beautiful face but he did not dare. He said he could beat her, she knew he could not. If Yagji could not beat her, or make Abajai beat her, no slave born in the world could raise a hand to her. “Tcha!” said Retoth, and stalked away. “You waste my time. You will see Abajai when we return. He has said so.” Hekat smiled, and followed him. Retoth did not speak to her on the long walk from Abajai’s villa to the Merchants district. She didn’t care. Being in the fresh air was better than sitting below the villa’s stairs. She could see the city in sunshine now. She would have so much to tell Abajai when she saw him again. There was a special place for people to walk, so the many slave-carried litters in the streets were not slowed down. Some of them traveled quite swiftly, their muscular slaves running in a flat-footed shuffle. The litters were beautiful, carved from exotic polished wood inlaid with bronze. Some were curtained in heavy silks, others were open so the world might admire the masters and mistresses they bore, wearing rich fabrics and jeweled amulets, bright as songbirds in rainbow colors. At the end of some streets stood a godpost with a godbowl at its base. She saw a godspeaker dressed in brown linen and snakeskin empty the offerings from one of the godbowls into a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He was very young, his brow bound with the tiniest scorpion. Retoth bowed his head as they passed him. So did she, after Retoth poked her with his elbow. There were images of the hooded godsnake wherever she looked, not just on the godposts at the end of

the streets. It was painted on the walls enclosing some of the houses, or sat as a bronze statue on top. It was picked out in green and blue and red stones where they walked, and in the middle of the road. The godsnake of Et-Raklion was everywhere. Twisting her neck, she looked up at Raklion’s Pinnacle, rising from the center of the city. In the bright sunshine she could see a wide road winding round and round, leading past the barracks and the palace to the godhouse at its peak. If she squinted she could see many moving figures on that road, traveling up, traveling down. The scorpion on top of the godhouse’s godpost blazed black and crimson in the light. The god’s great eye, watching them all. The roads and walkways grew steadily busier the closer she and Retoth got to the Merchants district. Now there were open slave-drawn carriages, hung with bells and amulets, seating one or two people and rolling swiftly on polished wooden wheels. The slaves wore a harness over their shoulders, their godbraids bounced and rattled as they ran with the carriages jingling behind them. Hekat stared. One day she would ride in a carriage like that. Proudly, with Abajai, so all Et-Raklion would know she was precious. She thought of the man in that savage north village, and was sorry he would never know that sending her away with the Traders was the only good thing he had ever done. She and Retoth reached the bazaar at last, an enormous covered place crammed end to end and side to side with stalls and booths and foodsellers with trays on leather straps around their shoulders, hawking sweet jellies and spiced nuts and pastries dripping with honey. The air was almost too thick to breathe, so many smells, sweet and sour and sharp and soft. They filled her lungs and made her gasp. There were more people beneath this one high roof, shouting and laughing and singing and arguing, than lived in that village in the north. Retoth took her by the arm and pulled her close. “Stay with me!” he bawled into her ear. A few steps away a woman and two men played drums and cymbals and a wailing wooden recorder. It was hard to hear Retoth above their noise. “My shadow, brat, or Abajai will be displeased!” She pulled a face. Retoth used Abajai’s name the way the man had used his goat-stick, what a stupid slave. Abajai would never hurt her. But she’d be Retoth’s shadow, all the same. It would be easy to get lost in this shouting, stinking, crowded bazaar. He took her to a booth filled with racks and racks of clothing. Two fat women pounced, like sandcats on rock mice. She was pulled behind a saggy curtain, poked and prodded, made to undress, then try on tunic after tunic, pantaloons, robes, so many clothes, till she wanted to scream. The only reason she did not scratch out their eyes was because they had a mirror that showed all of her body, from her godbraided head to her bare brown toes. She had never seen her whole body before. Entranced, she let the stupid fat women coo and chatter and smother her in fabrics. She only snarled when they tried to take off the snake-eye amulet Abajai had given her. Then they squealed and groveled and Retoth demanded from the other side of the curtain to know what was going on! The women rushed to tell him that all was in order, but Hekat said nothing. She looked at her body, and was amazed. Her arms were long. Her legs were long. Her head with all its heavy godbraids sat neatly on her long neck. In the village there’d been dull dry skin lying thinly over skinny hips and ribs and jutting shoulders. Now . . . she was not fat, but there was flesh on her bones. She’d felt her body changing as she traveled

the road with Abajai and Yagji but now she could see it: smooth and sleek, her shape so pleasing to the eye. Her skin, not dull but rich warm brown, glowing in the booth’s mellow lamplight. Last of all she studied her face. Not as thin as when last she’d seen it, shown to her by the woman Bisla in Todorok. Her eyes weren’t frightened anymore, they were open and fearless. Proud. Defiant. Words she had learned from Abajai, that Yagji said described her, and should be beaten out of her. Abajai paid no attention to stupid Yagji. For herself, she loved those words. She loved herself, shining in the mirror. I am proud. I am defiant. I am Hekat, precious and beautiful. All of me is beautiful. The god sees me. I am seen by the god. CHAPTER SEVEN After the longest time the fat women finished drowning her in clothes. They left her alone to dress and took armfuls of the tunics and pantaloons she’d worn for them out to the front of their booth. When she joined them they ignored her, they were busy squabbling over coin with Retoth. He ignored her too, he cared more for Abajai’s money than for her. Bored. Hekat wandered a small way from Retoth and the women, threading her way through the jostling crowd. Her interest was caught by a booth full of amulets. She wandered closer. The amulet-seller was busy with a customer. Hekat stood to one side and looked at the merchandise laid out on wooden tables and dangling from ropes stretched over her head. Some of the amulets were as large as her fist, others smaller than her smallest fingernail. Some were carved out of bone, or fashioned from lizard skulls and snake-skulls and even fleshless human fingers. The bones and skulls were banded in bronze, in silver, in gold. There were tiny stone snake-fangs as blue as the sky. Larger snake-fangs in rock striped cream and crimson. Snake-eyes of pale green crystal, of richest yellow and hot fire-flame. Tiny clenched fists carved out of ivory, and ivory feet with a snake carved into the sole to guard against fangstrike. There were lots and lots and lots of scorpions, in every kind of stone and crystal. One in particular caught her eye, snared her attention like a fly drawn to honey. She picked it up to look more closely. It was the size of a living scorpion. Shiny black, with deep flecks of scarlet and gold that caught the bazaar’s torchlight and shimmered, like breathing. It felt warm on her palm, almost alive. She almost expected to feel its feet move against her skin. “What is this? What is this?” the amulet-seller demanded. Her other customer had gone away, they were alone in the amulet booth. “Whose child are you?” Reluctantly, Hekat put down the carved black scorpion. “I belong to Trader Abajai.” The amulet-seller was a wrinkled woman, so old her skin was fading to a light and ugly brown. All her greying godbraids were limp. Her eyes were filmed over with whitish scum, she was missing most of her teeth. “Trader Abajai?” the old woman said. “Returned from the road? The god sees me. Abajai is Et-Raklion’s son, beloved of the god. What is your name, and where are you from?” “I am Hekat from the savage north.” “Aieee!” The old woman hitched up her shawl; it was sewn with so many amulets it kept trying to slide

off her bony shoulders and rattle to the booth’s threadbare floor. “The savage north. That is why the child is fearless, and stands before me with its head held high.” She picked up the amulet, caressed it, smiling. “Does Hekat like my scorpion? I made it, you know. I made all these amulets. The god speaks to me in the night, in the wind, in the water. I make these amulets and the god sees me in its eye.” Hekat looked again at the beautiful scorpion. “I like it.” “Then you may have it,” said the old woman. “A gift for Hekat from the savage north.” She leaned forward. “But keep it secret, child,” she whispered. “This amulet is special. I have never made another like it. The god thundered in my heart as it guided my blade. It thunders now. It wants you to have this.” Hekat nodded. If she told Retoth he would take this gift for himself. “I will keep it secret.” She reached for the black stone scorpion, and her hand touched the hand of the old amulet-seller. The woman gasped, she dropped the scorpion onto the table, not caring if it chipped or smashed, and seized her in a grasp too strong for such brittle, claw-like fingers. “Savage Hekat!” the old woman breathed. Her scummy eyes lost their focus, rolled upwards in her head like a godspeaker’s in the middle of sacred ritual. “The god sees you, it burns you in its eye! Great lady, mother of the god’s desire, mother of the son! Rivers of blood, rivers of greatness! Wastelands of despair!” As Hekat wrenched free, Retoth appeared at her shoulder. “Hekat, I told you to stay with me! Abajai will beat you when I tell him of your wickedness. He will not abide disobedience beneath his roof!” She was so shaken by the old woman’s rantings she said, without sneering, “I am sorry, Retoth.” Retoth’s anger melted. “Oh. Very well. But you must come, it is wicked to dawdle.” “My new clothes?” “They are sent to the villa. Nowcome !” The amulet-seller was muttering and moaning, rocking on her seat. “Burning! Blood! Aieee, the god thunders!” Stupid old woman, she was demonstruck and ripe for stoning. Hekat snatched up the scorpion amulet and thrust it into her pocket, then ran after Retoth just as the bazaar’s milling crowds swallowed him entirely. They left the noisy, smelly bazaar and walked even further to the School district, where Retoth paraded her before a variety of tutors until one agreed to teach her reading and writing and dance in the villa. “I do not need a tutor,” she told Retoth, as they headed back to the Traders district. “Abajai is my teacher.” “Tcha!” said Retoth, shaking his head. “The master is too busy to bother with you. Hold your tongue now, you give me a headache.” On the long silent walk back to Abajai’s villa Retoth dropped silver coins into four of the godbowls they passed on the way. He even gave a copper coin to her, so she could please the god once. She thought,

briefly, of giving the god the black carved scorpion. In the end, though, she just gave it the copper coin. The scorpion was so beautiful, and the god already had so many amulets in its godbowls throughout the city. Besides, it meant the amulet for her. The first thing she heard when they returned to the villa was Abajai’s voice, coming from a room near the entrance hall. Forgetting Retoth, she dashed through its open door to find him. “Abajai! Abajai! Here I am!” He was stretched out on a long low couch, nibbling dried grapes from a glazed green bowl. Yagji sprawled on a couch beside him, feeding ripe plum pieces to an odd-looking animal perched on his fat belly. It was brown and white and hairy, it had a little face that looked almost human and tiny hands with four fingers and a thumb and a long curled tail. It saw her and let out a screech. “Hooli! Hooli, don’t be frightened!” said Yagji, and clutched the hairy thing to his breast. “Stupid brat! Don’t you know it isrude to enter unannounced? Look what you’ve done, you’ve frightened Hooli!” Hooli? Then this was amonkey . What a creature! Safe in Yagji’s suffocating arms it chattered and gibbered and hid its face behind its hands. She pointed. “Yagji called Hekat a monkey on the road. Hekat isnothing like that Hooli!” “No, she is not,” said Yagji, scowling. “My Hooli is worth a thousand times more in pure solid gold!” “Only to you, Yagji, I promise,” said Abajai, chuckling. Hovering in the doorway, Retoth said, “Forgive me, master, I could not stop her in—” “It is no matter,” said Abajai. “Leave us, Retoth. I will have private words with Hekat.” Retoth bowed and withdrew, closing the lavish room’s door. Abajai looked her up and down. “Your godbraids are pleasing,” he said. “They honor the god. You have visited the bazaar? You have new clothes?” Hekat dropped onto the nearest couch and sat with her spine very straight. Her godbells chimed softly, singing his praises. “Yes, Abajai. Thank you.” “What of a tutor?” She pulled a face. “It would be better if Abajai taught me.” Yagji snorted. Abajai said, “No. This is best. There are many things to learn from a tutor, he can teach you what I cannot.” She felt pricky tears, she blinked them away. “I have a tutor. He comes from next highsun.” Abajai leaned forward and flicked his finger on her knee. “I am pleased. Do you like Et-Raklion city?” She sighed. “Et-Raklion city is beautiful. Will Abajai show me all of it, soon?” “Not soon,” said Abajai. “Yagji and I have been on the road many godmoons. My time is for business

now. The things you saw upon the road, Hekat—warbands and dead men, blood on the brown grass—have you sharpened your tongue on them to Retoth or any slaves below the stairs?” He had no time to show her Et-Raklion? Disappointment was a snake-fang, piercing her heart. “No, Abajai. Hekat does not talk with slaves.” “Good,” he said. “Those things we saw upon the road are our secret, they are things for the Traders and the warlord to know. No-one else.” Our secret. Aieee, to know how much he trusted her. “Yes, Abajai.” He nodded, serious. “I tell you this also. We are no longer on the road. This is the city, we must live city lives. Unless you are sent for, you will stay beneath the villa, you will learn your lessons and obey Retoth. That is your world now, below the stairs. Retoth will give me reports of you daily, I will know how you go on. You wish to please me?” “Only to please you, Abajai,” she whispered. From the corner of her eye she could see Yagji, feeding the monkey Hooli more ripe red plum-pieces. He was smiling. He had never liked her. He was jealous. Now Abajai smiled, his eyes were kind. “Do not despair, Hekat. From time to time you will see me and I will see you and all the time the god will see us both. If pleasing Abajai is your true want let that be enough for now.” She was Hekat, beautiful and precious, come from Mijak’s savage north. She was strong and proud and fearless. She plucked the snake-fang from her disappointed heart and flung it away. “Yes, Abajai,” she said, and left him to sit with Yagji and the stupid monkey. She went downstairs, to the slaves’ world below the villa, and shut herself privately into her chamber, where she sat on her soft bed and bit her lip until her pricky eyes stopped their stupid burning. The scorpion amulet was still in her tunic pocket. She had meant to show it to Abajai, but his stern words had stolen her thoughts. She took it out and held it tightly, feeling its sharp edges against her skin, recalling the words of the amulet-seller. Great lady, mother of the god’s desire, mother of the son! Rivers of blood, rivers of greatness! Wastelands of despair! Stupid scummy-eyed old woman, gabbling nonsense. Demons lived in her babbling tongue, the godspeakers would come for her and cut them out. Hekat thrust the amulet under the pillow, rolled herself into her blankets, and fell asleep. Days passed, drifting one into the next into the next. A little rain fell, mostly the sky was blue and cloudless. Abajai never went beneath the villa. His feet never touched the stairs leading down to the kitchen and the laundry and the workrooms and the store-rooms and the slaves’ sleeping quarters, and out to the slaves’ garden where fresh fruits and vegetables were grown. The slaves went upstairs, every day they went up to clean the villa or serve Abajai and Yagji and their Trader guests or do the things that Abajai and Yagji needed them to do. But Abajai never once came down. Hekat sulked. She was used to seeing Abajai every day. She’d seen him and talked with him every day

from newsun to lowsun since leaving the village. Even when they’d traveled in silence, when he pinched her shoulder or tugged on her godbraids to still her tongue, he’d been there with her, a constant reassuring presence at her back. She missed that. She missed him. She was lonely. The feeling offended her. Loneliness belonged to that nameless she-brat in the village, who’d slept under tables and chained to walls. That ignorant, naked, skin-and-bone creature destined for the dogs, or an end even worse, it had lived in loneliness the way fish lived in water. But she wasn’t that sad she-brat anymore. She had a name now, she wore fine clothes, her godbraids sang with silver godbells. She had a tutor, bought and paid for. How could Hekat, precious and beautiful, belonely ? Abajai’s stupid slaves did not talk to her, they talked to each other but not to her. Even when she had to work with them, because the slave Retoth said she mustearn her keep , even then they would not talk to her. She thought that might be Obid’s doing, he lived at the villa, the slaves spoke to Obid and he spoke to them about her, she was certain. So they knew where she came from, the savage north, they knew what she used to be, a dirty nameless she-brat. They did not understand what she had become, and they let Obid’s maggot questions writhe in their hearts and only when Retoth said they had to, would they ever speak to her. Not that she cared. They were jealous because Abajai wasAbajai and notthe master . They were jealous because he dressed her in silk and cotton and paid a stupid tutor silver coins to teach her reading and writing and how to dance, tra-la. Reading and writing were tedious, but she liked to dance. Twenty-eight highsuns came and went without her once sitting with Abajai to talk, and laugh, and poke silly fun at pouting Yagji. Twenty-eight highsuns and she never climbed the stairs into the villa at all. One time the slave Nada caught her looking up those stairs, the slave shook a fist at her and said,Enter the villa without Retoth’s word, Hekat, and you will be beaten . The way the slave Nada said that, Hekat knew she hoped therewould be a beating. There would not. Staying below stairs was Abajai’s want, she would obey him. But oh, his want chafed like the slave chains chafed the merchandise on the road. It poked her like Obid’s spear poked those slaves to sit, to stand, to eat, to pish. She stayed beneath the villa, she learned her lessons and her dancing, she scrubbed pots in the kitchen and sheets in the laundry, she toiled among the vegetables and sat in the kitchen with the villa’s stupid slaves and listened to them laugh and tease and joke and tell tales of Et-Raklion city, which they could visit sometimes but she could not. She was notfree here. On the road with Abajai she had been free. But he would send for her soon, he must send for her soon. Then she would walk in the world, with him. She understood why he had not sent for her yet, he was busy, he had Trader business. She knew from the slaves’ gossip how many Traders came and went upstairs—Abajai was respected, so many sought his counsel. Once he even went to the warlord’s palace, the warlord spoke to him in private conference. Aieee, he was an important man! Even so. He would send for her soon. She was precious, he must miss her as she missed him. While she waited she learned her Mijaki picture-letters and word-symbols, practiced writing them with her stylus on the damp clay tablets the tutor brought with him each day, and read aloud from the baked clay tablets he left behind for her to study. And when she was outside in the slaves’ garden, pulling weeds and raking leaves and spreading chicken dung on the vegetables, she would hear in her head the chiming of his tambourine, and lightly dance the steps he taught her.

When Abajai sent for her at last he would be so proud of his clever, beautiful Hekat. He summoned her a finger before lowsun on the twenty-ninth day. She was in her chamber, practicing her writing, when the slave Retoth entered unannounced. Such a rude man, she did not like him. “Get up,” he said. “The master wants you.” She liked best to write lying flat on the floor, with the soft pink woven carpet tickling her skin. She leapt up. “Abajai sends to see me now? Aieee, I must dress for him!” Retoth folded his arms. “You are dressed already.” “Tcha!” she said scornfully, and rummaged in the wooden trunk that contained her fine bazaar clothes. “I must be beautiful for Abajai! He will wait for me.” “Arrogant wretch,” said Retoth, under his breath, but that was all. He knew she was right. She selected a tunic striped in emerald and lapis blue, and pantaloons the color of flame. She pulled off her yellow shift, it didn’t matter that Retoth could see her skin. He was a gelding, not a man. Except for Obid, all the villa’s male slaves were geldings. Gelding made men docile, Nada said. Otherwise they got themselves in trouble. Beautifully dressed for Abajai, with her snake-eye amulet dangling for him to see, she followed Retoth upstairs into the villa. Abajai sat in the same lavish room as before. Yagji was there too, reclining on his favorite couch with his stupid monkey Hooli leaping and capering and spitting date stones on the carpets. She was so pleased to see Abajai, she wanted to run to him, to dance for him, to show him he could trust her above the stairs, in the villa, in the city of Et-Raklion. But she didn’t run, or dance. His face told her he wanted her to walk, to be silent, to hold inside all her shouting pleasure. She obeyed, because she loved him. “Retoth,” said Abajai, relaxed on his own couch. “You give a good report of Hekat below the stairs?” Retoth’s face was sour but he could not lie. “A good report, master.” “And what does the tutor tell you?” “The tutor tells me Hekat learns swiftly, master.” Abajai turned to Yagji, who had captured the monkey Hooli and was holding it in his arms. “Was I not right, Yagji?” Yagji shrugged. “Half right, so far.” He began brushing his stupid pet’s brown and white coat with an ivory-backed brush. “As for the rest, Aba, it remains to be seen.” Abajai took a large clay tablet from the table beside him and held it out. “Read this to me, Hekat.” The tablet was heavy. If she dropped and broke it Abajai would be angry. She would keep hold of it no matter how cruelly her fingers ached. She studied the tablet’s writing closely, then took a deep breath.

“‘For obedience pleases the god,’” she read slowly, sounding out each symbol with teeth and tongue. “‘Sacrifice pleases it. Offerings—offerings—’” “Swell,” said Abajai. “That symbol means ‘swell.’ Do you know the word ‘swell,’ Hekat?” Mute, she shook her head. She could not read Abajai the tablet. She had failed him. Pricky tears burned her eyes. “It means to increase,” said Abajai. “To make larger. It is an old-fashioned word. Keep reading.” Blinking, she looked again at the clay tablet. “‘Offerings swell the—the—’” Aieee,another word-symbol she did not know. She knew the word-sounds, weren’t they enough? She stared at it, heart pounding. What did the stupid tutor say? The stupid tutor said to look at the word-symbols around the word-symbol she did not know and see if they could help her guess its meaning. She looked again at the other word-symbols. Offerings swell thesomething . But what? That symbol there, it was almost the sign for the god. Almost, but not quite. Memory stirred, showed her the time she and Retoth walked through the streets to the bazaar. Godposts on street corners. Young godspeakers tipping coins into their leather bags . . . “‘Godbowl!’” she shouted, triumphant. “Abajai, Hekat knows this word-symbol now, it means godbowl!” Abajai clapped his hands. “Well done, Hekat. Keep reading.” “‘Offerings swell the godbowl. The scorpion stings the man with—with—’” It was no good. She had not been reading so very many highsuns. She could not guess the rest. “‘With a heart like stone,’” said Abajai. “These words are given us by Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker, Hekat. Can you see his name writ on the tablet?” She looked, hard. Yes. There was a name there. The stupid tutor had taught her to write her own name, and Abajai’s, and even Yagji’s. She frowned at it, sounding it out in the silence of her head. “Nagarak,” she said at last. “The name is Nagarak.” “Yes, it is,” said Abajai. “You have been listening to your tutor, Hekat. Abajai is pleased with you.” Abajai is pleased. The words sang in her heart, she could not keep her laughter secret. Abajai retrieved the clay tablet, then from a wooden box by the chamber window took a painted tambourine. He gave it to Retoth. “Make music, Retoth, so Hekat can dance.” Dancing, said the stupid tutor, was a way of honoring the god. Dancing made the body lithe and supple, it stretched the muscles and strengthened the heart. When she danced her silver godbells sang without ceasing, as the music sang within her blood. She felt alive, she felt connected to the ground and the sky and the air all around her. It seemed she knew how to dance before the stupid tutor showed her one thing about it, as though the dance was already inside her, waiting to come out. She danced for Abajai, honoring him.

When she was finished, her body warm and glowing, the last tambourine chime died away, even Yagji praised her. “Very pretty,” he said, with the stupid monkey still in his arms. “That was a pretty dance.” “Hekat is graceful,” said Abajai. “Graceful and beautiful.” “Abajai . . .” She stepped forward. “Abajai, I have been good. I work in the garden, I clean in the kitchen, I study with the tutor five fingers every day. I am not savage now, I read and dance, I have sweet breath and clean skin. When can I join you in the villa?” “In the villa?” said Yagji, and tittered. “So, Aba, not so intelligent after all.” Abajai frowned. “You live beneath the villa. Hekat, with the other slaves. That is your place here.” He did not understand. She clasped her hands behind her back. “Abajai, Hekat is thinking. Hekat wants to be a Trader.” Retoth dropped the tambourine, bang jangle jangle. Hooli shrieked and leapt out of Yagji’s arms. Abajai sat up very slowly, his lips pinched, his eyes cool. “I am not stupid, Abajai,” she said, eager to explain. “I can learn Trader business. You have no son, I can be a son to you. I can help you in your Trading.” “Aieee!” said Yagji, and fanned his face. “It says it’s not stupid, then asks to be one ofus? Aba, Aba, did I nottell you? Did I notwarn you? Did I not—” “Silence, Yagji!” said Abajai, standing. “Hekat, are you demonstruck?” Demonstruck?Dry-mouthed she stared up at him, so tall, so looming. “Abajai?” He shook his head, as though he were pained with disappointment. “You are aslave , Hekat. I bought you with my silver coin. You were there, you saw your father sell you to me. You are not like a child of my bloodline, you areproperty .” Property? No. No. That could not be right. Hekat was precious, she was not aslave . “But, Abajai, how can that be true?” she whispered. “I rode on the white camel, I slept in your tent. I did not eat the slave food with the slaves. I never wore slave chains. I have no slave-braid.” “There!” said Yagji, pouty and cross. “Perhaps now you will grant me my wisdom, Aba. Buy it a slave-braid, I told you in Todorok. Don’t make a pet of it, I said from the start. Would you heed me? No, you would not. And see what has happened? It is grown proud and ignorant, this precious slave of yours, it does not know its place in the world.” “Yes, Iam precious!” she said, ignoring Yagji. “I am Hekat, precious and beautiful. I read, I write, I dance. I wear silk and linen, I am taught by a paid tutor, yourslaves are not taught.” Abajai sighed, and dropped to one knee before her. His warm hands rested on her shoulders. “Hekat. Listen to me. It is true I have treated you differently. I bought you fine clothes, and pay a tutor to teach you. This does not mean you are not a slave. I have done these things to increase your value.”

Increase hervalue? It was a good thing Abajai’s hands held her shoulders, she would float away if they did not, her body felt so light, her head was a cloud. “Abajai willsell me?” she asked him, faintly. He could not sell her. How could he sell her? He loved her, she was certain. She knew she loved him. She knew what love was now, the tutor read her stories about men and women loving. Stupid Yagji rolled his eyes. “Tellher, Aba. Tell her now what you should have told her from the first. Put her straight and end this nonsense!” CHAPTER EIGHT Heart pounding, Hekat glared her hate at stupid Yagji. She was hot, she was burning, if she touched the fat man he would burst into flame. “Aieee!” he cried, and clutched his amulet. “See her eyes, Aba! She wants to hurt me, she iswicked ! I will not have her here anymore! You say Hekat is an investment? Investments become liabilities if they are not realized in time. She reads, she writes, I grant she dances with the god’s grace. And yes, she is beautiful. But Aba, she is a blight upon this household. The other slaves dislike her, she sows discord below the stairs with her arrogant ways! Ask Retoth. He will tell you.” Abajai stood, his face a frown. “Am I to care for what slaves like or dislike? Am I not master of this villa?” “You are to care if their disliking creates unrest,” said Yagji crossly. “Twelve other slaves we have here, all unhappy because of a thirteenth that daily costs us hard-earned coin. Is this good practice? You know it is not. The slaves obey because that is what slaves are for but they are not brute beasts, Aba, you have always said so. Our household is never plagued with slave mischief because you know that is true. But now you have forgot, you are so besotted with this wretched creature you cannot think past the gold coin you think she will fetch! You say the god guided you to that village?I say you listened to a demon!” “Tcha!” said Abajai, his hands turned to fists and the scarlet scorpion in his cheek writhing. “Speak blasphemy and the god will smite you. I am notbesotted , Yagji. Hekat is blooming, true, ripe enough now to make a man look twice, but her full blossoming is yet to come. Are you deaf to me, Yagji? Have I not said to you, over and over, since we left the desolate village that spawned her: of Hekat I will create a concubine worthy of a warlord. Why else do I spend our good coin upon her? She is no common, ordinary slave, to be bought and broken and put into harness. She is a godgift, so we might be wealthy beyond our lifetimes. Iwill not sell her before she is ripe. I will sell every other slave here and change bed linens myself before I do such a foolish thing. Would you settle for a trickle of silver when soon enough she will give us a river ofgold ?” If Yagji said something in return, Hekat did not hear his words. Her body was breathless, and in her ears a terrible roaring, raging flames to blacken the world. It was true. He meant to sell her. Gold mattered to Abajai, she did not. She was a thing to him, not a person, not his precious and beautiful Hekat. She was walking, talking, dancing gold. She had no words. There were no words. There was only pain like the devouring of dogs. I loved you. I loved you. I thought you loved me.

Abajai said, “It is a pity you misread your purpose, Hekat. I hope you understand it now?” She nodded. “I understand,” she whispered. Her throat was tight, it hurt to talk. “I am Abajai’s slave.” “Yes. My slave. Still precious, still beautiful. But no more than a slave. It was foolish of you to think anything else.” He turned to Retoth. “Take her beneath the villa, Retoth. I think she will give you no more trouble.” Retoth’s face was solemn but his eyes were laughing, he was laughing at her, he was pleased to see her brought so low. “Yes, master,” he said. “I think she knows her proper place.” Hekat flinched. Retoth snapped his fingers at her in passing. She did not scold him, but followed him to the door. Five paces from it she slowed, and turned. “Trader Abajai? You never loved me?” “Lovedyou?” said Yagji, and flapped his hands. “I was right all along, it is stupid,stupid !” “Masters do not love their slaves,” said Abajai, impatient. “I am fond of you, Hekat, I wish you no ill. Butlove you? Aieee! Perhaps Yagji is right. Perhaps you are stupid.” She ran at him screeching, reaching to claw out his eyes, his tongue, to tear his long godbraids out of his scalp. His swinging fist caught her, clubbed her sideways, she fell onto a low table and smashed it flat. The monkey Hooli screamed from the curtains and Yagji threw himself backwards, squealing. Dazed, half unconscious, Hekat felt Abajai drag her onto her feet. His flat hand struck her, hard stinging blows. At first she fought him but it made no difference, he was strong, she was weak. In the end she stood there just like the woman, and let him hit her. He was no different from the man. “There,” he said, when he was finished beating her. “You are punished, Hekat. Now go with Retoth, you will sit in your chamber until he gives you permission to leave, you will eat no dinner. Tomorrow you will get your slave-braid in the godhouse, I will have no more of this nonsense. If your defiance continues the god will smite you. Do you understand?” Her eyes were full of pricky tears. She would die before she let them fall. “I understand, Abajai.” “I understand,master ,” said Abajai, sharply. She nodded, even though that hurt her head. “I understand,master .” “Good. Now go.” She followed Retoth down the stairs, to the slaves’ place. He banged her chamber door shut behind her. She vomited the remains of her highsun meal into the pishpot, chicken and cornmush and spicy fried greens, then curled into a ball on the beautiful carpet, paid for by the sale of girls like herself. She felt small and cold yet still burning hot. Yagji is right. I am stupid. Stupid.

In her dreams the man’s dogs chased her, howling and growling and running behind Abajai’s camel. Blood and spittle dripped from their open jaws, their claws like stone scythes scrabbled in the dirt. Abajai wasn’t riding his camel, he wasn’t warm and solid and comforting at her back, he was riding Yagji’s camel. There was Yagji, there was Abajai, and there was the stupid monkey Hooli, they rode the white camel all happy together, laughing and pointing at Hekat alone, and the man’s starving dogs were coming . . . they were coming . . . “Abajai!” screamed Hekat, and sat up on the floor. In the chamber’s darkness her breathing sounded loud and frightened. Her skin was sweaty, her tunic and pantaloons damp and twisted about her body. She wiped her sleeve across her face and stood, silver godbells tinkling, feeling her heart hang hard on her ribs. Retoth would not give her flint and striker to light her chamber lamp, she counted eight paces to the door and pulled it open, one finger wide. The passage beyond was lit with three candles, and she could hear no sounds of slaves walking or talking. It was late, then. The quiet time. She opened the door a little wider, some faint light creeping in, she counted six paces to her bed and sat. Her head felt sore, her mouth tasted mucky. If I stay in this place, Abajai will sell me. In this place I am a goat fattening in the slaughter-pen, waiting for the knife. Waiting for a rich man’s coin to buy me. If I stay in this place I am truly a slave. It did not matter that Abajai had given the man coin for her. She was not a slave, a weak nothing person like Retoth or Obid or Nada. Not in her heart, where she was her true self. But if she stayed here past this night Abajai would have her marked with a slave-braid and then shewould be a slave, in Mijak’s eyes she would be property forever. Even if she cut off that slave-braid with the sharpest knife her hair would grow back again red as blood. A slave-braid was given by the god for life. I have to run. Shuddering, she remembered that runaway slave in Et-Nogolor city, the sound of his babbling agony, the flies in the slashed-open cavern of his belly. If she ran and was caught, that would be her. She would die as that slave died. Running was only the start, she had to run to somewhere, find a place where she could safely hide and make a new life. But where? In Et-Raklion she knew Abajai, she knew Yagji, she knew the stupid tutor. They were the only free men she knew in all of Mijak, except for the man, and she couldn’t go back to the savage north. Even if she knew how to get there, even if she could journey so far on her own . . . she never would. That life in the village was slavery too. The man was poor, and Abajai was rich. Otherwise, they were the same. Where can I go? Where will I be safe, and free? Gossip in the kitchen, slaves laughing over sadsa. Talking of other slaves in the bazaar, in the Slaughter district, with tales of Raklion warlord and his beautiful palace, his mighty warriors, the city within a city that was their warrior barracks. Home to ten thousand fierce fighters and their horses, was Raklion’s barracks. Home to the blacksmiths who shod those horses, the artisans who forged the warriors’ weapons, crafted those leather

chest-pieces to keep their godsparks safe inside, who built sleek swift chariots and the wheels they rode on. The cooks who fed the warriors and the workers, the laundries that kept their tunics clean. The stables to house the horses, the pens to house the animals whose carcasses fed the hungry ten thousand. Some were slaves who worked there, others were poor folk, eking out a living. That’s what the slaves said, gossiping in the kitchen, the laundry, in the villa’s gardens. The barracks of Et-Raklion. A city within a city . . . Surely one she-brat could find a home in such an anthill, unnoticed. Surely Abajai would not think to look for her in Raklion warlord’s warrior barracks. He would not, she knew it. In the barracks she would be safe. All she had to do was reach them. Except she’d learned other things from slaves’ gossip in the kitchen: godspeakers walked the streets of Et-Raklion in the quiet time and to be found by a godspeaker then was to be punished by the god. If a godspeaker found her running away . . . Hekat dropped to her knees on the beautiful carpet, she clenched her fingers into fists and pressed them to her pounding heart. Let me leave here, god. Guide me to the warlord’s barracks. If you do this—if you do this for me—I will be yours forever. I will serve you with my last breath. My blood and bones will belong to you. I will be Hekat, slave of the god. How long she knelt there, she did not know. The god did not speak to her, or if it did she could not hear it. Did that mean the god was not listening? Or had the god turned its back to her, was she unworthy to serve? Was Yagji right, did the god not see her heart at all? The god sees me. It sees me. It saw me in the savage north, it will see me in Raklion’s barracks. It will. It must. I am Hekat, beautiful and precious. I was chosen by Abajai. I was chosen by the god. Her heart still pounding, she got off the floor. If she was truly leaving it had to be now. Her godbells sang with every step she took and Retoth slept light as sadsa froth. She took a towel from the shelf by her bed and wrapped it round her singing godbraids so he would not wake. Then she slipped from her chamber, slid the nearest burning candle from its holder and crept down the passage to the kitchen, where she took one of the cook-slave’s thin sharp knives. She took five small bread loaves from their basket, five small bricks of cheese from their stone bin and an empty leather flask from the pile left ready for the villa’s outside workers. All the time she listened for Retoth, or Nada, or any slave stirring so late at night. No-one stirred. No-one heard her. Safe again in her chamber, she fixed the candle to her bed chest with drips of wax, searched through her clothes trunk and chose the plain dark blue tunic and pantaloons Retoth had thought she should have in case a godspeaker came calling to the villa. She tugged off her bright clothing and pulled them on, and her sturdiest shoes without the curly toes. Then she cut one leg from the pantaloons she’d discarded and tied a knot at the bottom. That would be her food-sack. Into it she dropped the loaves and cheeses and put the leather flask on top. Last of all she sawed off her godbraids one by one and laid them like an offering on the bed. She looked at them sadly, silent silver godbells gleaming in the yellow candlelight. Now her hair was short and spiky, hacked-off godbraids unraveling, disrespectful to the god.

I am sorry. I had to do it. The knife she slid into her pocket. On impulse, she snatched back two of the godbraids and buried them in her pocket too. And that was it. Unless . . . should she write something on one of her practice clay tablets? Her writing was not perfect yet but she knew enough word-symbols to cause some trouble . . . Working as quickly as her trembling fingers would let her, she pressed her stylus into the damp clay. Retoth say Hekat bad slave, Abajai angry, sell Hekat Trader visiting. Hekat sad. Go Et-Raklion . Despite her pain, the knife in her heart, she laughed a little in her throat. She hoped Abajai would beat that slave Retoth until he cried. Or died. Touching the lapis snake-eye round her neck, Abajai’s gift, she felt her face twist with hate. She wanted no gift from him: cruel, lying Abajai. She dragged the amulet over her head, unpicked the knot in its leather thong and unthreaded the carved blue stone. It fell from her fingers like a piece of camel dung. Ignoring it, she took her carved scorpion amulet out of hiding. It had a hole bored through its head, she threaded it onto the leather thong, retied the knot and put it on, letting it drop beneath her tunic. The scorpion was heavy, warm against her skin, promise of the god’s protection. She left the practice tablet with her message on the bed beside the severed godbraids, then crept from the chamber with her food-sack, silent like the smallest breeze. Still no slave was stirring, they slept as though a demonspell had turned them to rock. Unnoticed, she slipped out of the villa. Into the garden. Climbed the jaga tree by the villa’s back wall, wriggled hand-over-hand along the branch that stuck out into the side-street beyond. Dropped soundless to the cobbles far below . . . . . . and was free. Barely four streets distant from Abajai’s villa, flitting from shadow to shadow in the quiet time with her food-sack bumping bruises against her leg and her heartbeat so loud she wondered the godmoon and his wife did not hear it, she saw a godspeaker, striding in the moonlight, grim and vigilant for the god. She stilled herself, like a lizard beneath the eagle’s fleeting shadow. Her severed godbraids were silent in her pocket, he could not hear the godbells singing. But he did hear something, he stopped beneath a street torchlight and his bony face was listening. The scorpion bound with leather to his forehead was listening. The tall staff in his hand, carved and painted like a godpost, was listening. Then she heard what the godspeaker heard: the sounds of stumbling feet, of voices raised in raucous whisper. Two men, traveling late. They fell out of shadow into light, from the mouth of the narrow alleyway between two Trader villas. Their faces were stupid with sadsa or some other rowdy drink, and shiny with grease around their sloppy lips. Their robes were fastened uneasily to their bodies, their arms wrapped tight around each other’s shoulders. They saw the godspeaker and staggered to a halt. “You Traders,” said the godspeaker. His voice was soft, yet it sounded loud. “The god sees you. It sees you, Trader Voltek, it sees you, Trader Lopa. It sees you in the street, in the quiet time.” The Traders stared at the godspeaker, their eyes alive with fear. “Not by choice, godspeaker,” said the Trader with his godbraids tied in a tail. “We got lost.” “Lost?” said the godspeaker. “In your own district?”

The other Trader nodded. His godbraids clacked together, he wore no silver godbells, only beads and amulets. “First we got drunk, godspeaker,” he explained. His voice was high and squeaky. “Then we got lost.” “Drunkenness offends the god,” said the godspeaker. “It blurs the mind and weakens the wits.” “We didn’t mean to drink so much,” said the first Trader. “It was an accident, godspeaker. So was getting lost.” The godspeaker did not answer, he just swung his godstaff hard and sharp. It caught the Traders behind their knees, it sent them crashing to the street so they cried out in surprise and pain. They wriggled on their backs, staring up at the godspeaker. The godspeaker knelt between them and laid his godstaff on the ground at his side. Hekat saw no anger in his face, no sorrow, no pleasure. His face was smooth like sand before the wind rises, and his eyes were quiet, and calm, and terrible. “‘And the god spoke to the people, it said: between the time of working and the time of quiet there shall be the time of revelry, where men will sing and dance. But after revelry, then willbe the quiet time, the streets will sleep and so will men beneath their roofs.’” The Traders said nothing, they wriggled on their backs and made little gasping noises like dying she-babies on The Anvil. “You breach the time of quiet, Traders,” said the godspeaker. “Your sin offends the god.” His hands came up, fingers stretched wide. His palms glowed, like white fire they burned, but his face was calm. He touched the Traders with his hands, he pressed his burning palms against their faces. The Traders screamed, they shrieked like goats torn to pieces by sandcats, they writhed and flailed and thrashed upon the ground. “The god smites you, Trader Voltek, it smites you, Trader Lopa. It leaves its mark upon you for one fat godmoon, in your folly,” the godspeaker told them. “For one fat godmoon the god’s smiting is upon you and for one fat godmoon no man shall speak with you or Trade with you, no woman shall spread her legs for you, you will kneel before every godpost in the city and when you kneel you will weep tears of blood in your pain and your sorrow as the godsmite in your faces cleanses you of sin. You will eat bread, you will drink water. All other food and drink will drop you dead. Traders, you are smitten.” Hekat swallowed a cry as the scorpion bound to the godspeaker’s forehead flared bright crimson. The godsmitten Traders did cry out, their bodies bowed as though plucked up at the navel by invisible rope. The godspeaker removed his smiting hand. His scorpion faded to black. He picked up his godstaff and stood with graceful ease. The Traders sprawled at his feet. On their faces, burned into one cheek each, the white-hot imprint of his smiting hand, pulsing in time with their frantic gasps for air. “Get up,” said the godspeaker. “Go home. Begin your godpost pilgrimage at newsun . . . and remember this. The god will know if even one godpost remains untouched by your penitent tears. If even one godpost remains untouched at the end of a fat godmoon, the god will know. It will kill you in its eye. You will fall down dead in the street where you stand.”

Moaning, the Traders found their feet. From her hiding shadows on the other side of the road Hekat watched them stagger off in shame, sobbing their pain for the world to hear. Her mouth was dry. The godspeaker in the village had never punished wickedness so. His punishment for things was stone, stones, always stones. He did not have a hand of power. This godspeaker of Et-Raklion . . . the god saw him in its eye. Shaking his head, the godspeaker turned to continue his walking. As he turned, his terrible gaze swept over the street and through the shadows. He stopped. On his brow, the bound black scorpion waited. Hekat’s breath ended. He had seen her. He had seen her. He would beat her to the ground, he would lay his hand of power on her and his godsmite would burn her to cinders and ash . . . For ever and ever, he seemed to look at her. For ever and ever, she held him in her eye. The godspeaker walked away. Aieee! thought Hekat.The god sees me! It hides me! It grants me my want ! Exultant, giddy with triumph, she left the shadows and danced through the night, precious and beautiful in the god’s great eye. She saw four more godspeakers roaming the Traders district in the quiet time, but they did not see her. The god kept her hidden. They were the only other waking people she saw. The rest of Et-Raklion city’s people obeyed the god, they slept beneath their quiet roofs and did not tempt its fury. They were wise. They were not Hekat, hidden in the god’s great eye. When she reached the edge of the Traders district she paused in a shadow, to get her bearings. While learning from the stupid tutor she had coaxed him to tell her of the warlord’s city. He had shown her with words and pictures how each district was laid out around the Pinnacle’s base. To reach the barracks of Raklion warlord’s warriors she must walk through six more districts, to the start of the Pinnacle Road. She must pass between the guarding godposts at its mouth, and make her way up the side of the mount, past the warriors’ training grounds to the main gates in the barracks wall. After that she must get inside. The god will show me what I must know. I am its slave, I am Hekat, its chosen. When it wants to, it will tell me what to do. She looked at the night sky, where the godmoon walked with his obedient wife. Four fingers until newsun. That was time enough to reach the warrior barracks. Chilly in the quiet time, under the god’s severe protection, she headed for the Pinnacle. One wide street led from Et-Raklion city’s gatekeep, through the city and its districts, around Raklion’s Pinnacle to the Pinnacle Road. The street guided Hekat but, being cautious, she did not walk it. Instead she darted along the smaller side-streets, twisting and turning through the city’s alleyways. With every swift soft footfall she left the Traders district behind her, left Abajai and Yagji and the stupid monkey Hooli behind her. She traveled through districts she knew only by name,Artisan, Musician, Leatherworker, Seamstress, Jeweler, Potsmith , past darkened villas that did not want her, past roaming godspeakers who did not see her, always keeping her fierce gaze pinned upon the Pinnacle, and

the barracks, where the god told her she would find a home. She passed a fountain, bubbling water from one of the rivers running beneath the land of Mijak. She took the leather flask from her food-sack and filled it, then drank a little from her hand, alert for godspeakers. None approached. The city districts ended at last. At the place where the wide Pinnacle Road began its winding way up to Et-Raklion’s godhouse, the two tall godposts the tutor had spoken of stood their grim watch. They looked like the godpost in Yagji’s garden, sinuous snakes of Et-Raklion with a stinging scorpion upon each hooded head. The godbowls at their bases were the largest she had ever seen, their scorpion bellies half-filled with offerings. She knelt before each one and buried a godbraid beneath the gold, the silver, the bronze, the amulets and the figurines. This is for the god, she told each godpost.This is for Hekat in the god’s eye, for her protection, so she might serve the god. The godsnake of Et-Raklion smiled at her, twice. The godmoon and his wife had walked almost to the far horizon. When newsun came she must be at the barracks, away from the road and eyes that had no business seeing her. She picked up her food-sack and kept on walking. The barracks of Et-Raklion’s warriors were some distance ahead, they hid themselves behind a high stone wall. Torches burned along its top, throwing long dancing shadows onto the ground. At first the Pinnacle Road remained flat, cutting through the warriors’ training fields, but then she left them behind and the road tilted upwards. Her breathing deepened, her legs began to burn. Ignoring the discomfort she kept on walking, she did not take her eyes from the barracks wall. When she got closer she saw a godpost standing at each end, and set in the middle of its red and black stone blocks two impossibly tall wide wooden gates. There was no way to enter the barracks city. The gates were closed, the walls without footholds, and no trees grew close for her to climb. Where could she hide? Her searching gaze fell upon a tangled stand of stunted scrubby saplings that looked to form a kind of living, leafy cavern. They grew further up the hillside, a distance from the barracks wall. Close enough that she could see the barracks doings, far enough that those she watched would not notice her watching. Those trees are the god’s doing. Thank you, god. Your chosen slave gives you thanks. The stunted saplings resisted her. Their spindly trunks and branches were thorny, they scratched her arms, her face, they tore her clothes and poked sharp points in her ribs and throat. She bit her lip to swallow the pain and kept on pushing. She was Hekat from the savage north, she could not be defeated by trees. She wasn’t. She found the small clear space at their thorny tangled heart and curled up in it like a lizard, like a snake, resting her head on the lumpy food-sack. The ragged thorn scratches in her flesh smarted, they burned. As her spilled blood lost its wetness she listened to her breathing, harsh and dry like the land she came from. She listened to her heart, beating like a drum inside her ribs. She listened for the god, but could not hear it. The god was not speaking now. The god was busy elsewhere. When she needed it, the

god would speak. She slept. CHAPTER NINE When Hekat woke it was three fingers past newsun. She could hear sounds coming from the barracks behind its red and black walls; men shouting, hammers striking metal, striking rock. Horses neighing. Goats bleating. Chickens cackling. The lowing of oxen. Many feet, striking the ground. The barracks city was awake. She smelled smoke, it was laced with the scent of roasting animal flesh. Beneath the smoke were other smells, the stink of many men living together with animals inside closed walls. She uncoiled herself like a snake and crawled to the edge of the tangled trees. Peering through the spaces between their vicious thorny branches she saw the barracks city gates stood open. Slaves pulling carts went in, came out, leaving and joining the stream of travelers toiling up and down the Pinnacle Road. A group of warriors, their god braids heavy with solid gold beads, their bodies protected with leather vests blazed bright and bold with the godsnake of Et-Raklion, long spears in one hand, rode their lean striped and spotted horses onto the road, then swung them onto a smaller track that looked to lead around the hillside. The warriors were laughing, there was no scent of danger about them. Perhaps they were just exercising those horses, or exercising themselves. The smoke from the roast-fires smelled so good. Her belly rumbled, demanding food. She crawled back into her secret space and emptied her food-sack. Five small loaves, five small bricks of cheese. One flask of water. Since leaving the village her body had been spoilt, it had grown used to lots of food and drink. In the village she had survived on less meat in two days than Abajai gave her in one highsun meal. She could make her bread and cheese last many, many meals if she became again, for a little time, that starving she-brat from the village. She took the cook’s knife and one loaf of bread and sliced it into six pieces. She did the same with a brick of cheese. One piece of bread, one piece of cheese at newsun, one piece of bread, one piece of cheese at lowsun. This food would last her fourteen highsuns, and one newsun. She had flesh on her bones now. It would be enough. Between now and when her food was gone the god would guide her into the barracks. She did not doubt that. She would never doubt the god. Her supply of water would not last as long as the food. Men died fast without water, she had seen it in the savage north. She would not die like that. She would leave her safe place sometime between lowsun and newsun, she would find water and refill her leather flask. It would be safe to do that, the god would keep her hidden. Hekat ate her piece of bread and her piece of cheese, and stored the rest safely in her food-sack. She sipped some water from her leather flask and carefully replaced its stopper. Then she crawled back to the edge of her secret space, to watch the gates into the barracks city. By now, Retoth would know she was gone from Abajai’s villa. Abajai would know, and stupid Yagji. Would they look for her? She didn’t know. But if they did they would never find her. They would never look here, on Raklion’s Pinnacle. She was dead to them. They were dead to her. Abajai, who had called her precious, he was dead to her forever. He’d called her precious, he’d called her beautiful. Shewas beautiful. The mirror had shown her that. It

was the only time Abajai hadn’t lied. She was beautiful in her face, she was beautiful in her body. There was nothing she could do about her body . . . but her face? Frowning, Hekat thought of her treacherous face. Its beauty had sold her to Abajai. In time that beauty would have given him gold, when he in turn sold her to someone else. She did not want a beautiful face. Not if that meant she was precious to Abajai, and Yagji, to all the men who sold beautiful girls for gold. In the barracks city, among the warriors, her beautiful face would be a curse. No warrior would let her stay there, a she-brat with a beautiful face. Some man would claim her, he would sell her for gold. To be safe in the barracks she must not be beautiful. To get into the barracks at all, she must not be beautiful. She took her scorpion amulet from around her neck and held it on her palm. Help me, god. Show me how to take away my beautiful face. Tell me how to get into the barracks. The village godspeaker said no mortal could talk direct with the god. Only a godspeaker could hear it, only a godspeaker knew its will. Once she had believed him. Now she thought he spoke a lie, as all men spoke lies to ignorant she-brats. She heard the god. She knew its will. It had blinded its godspeaker to her in the street. She had offered herself to it, and it had accepted. Quietly she sat with her legs crossed and her spine straight, the carved black scorpion crouching on her skin. Tell me . . . tell me . . . tell me . . . From the depths of her waiting mind, the god plucked free a memory. She remembered the beautiful slave-boy Vortka, gone with the godspeaker of Et-Nogolor. “I was sold because the god took my father and gave my mother to another man. He had his own sons. He did not want my mother’s son.” This was a story that could serve her now. She wasn’t born a slave, the man had sold her and made her a slave but he was free and she was born free too, in Mijak’s savage north. She could twist that slave-boy Vortka’s story. Make it a story about her instead. The warriors would believe it. But Vortka’s story could not make her ugly. She opened her eyes and looked at the scorpion amulet on her palm. The sleeve of her tunic was pushed up her arm, she saw the scratches the thorns had made as she forced her way into this secret space. She touched her face, felt the dried blood and scratches on her cheeks, across her nose, on her brow. Scratches were not beautiful. Scratches, if they were deep enough, could leave a scar. She had seen it, on the man’s sons who cut and scratched themselves as they snake-danced on the edge of The Anvil. Hekat looked at the cook’s sharp knife. It hurt so much she nearly cursed the god. The cook’s knife sliced her cleanly, it sliced her flesh like it was fresh ripe peach. She cut her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, her nose. She cut her beauty till none of it was left. Her blood flowed like a river, it washed away that beauty, it washed away the gold Abajai saw in her face. When she was cut enough, when even without a mirror to look in she knew she was ugly, she sat in painful silence until the weeping blood dried. Then she curled up in her secret space, the scorpion amulet

in her fist, and went to sleep. A fever rose in her, sleep became a torment, she tossed and shivered, she dreamed the god’s voice. You are Hekat, precious and beautiful. You are the god’s slave, you live for its purpose. The god is in you, you are in the god’s eye. A long time passed before she woke. When once more she opened her eyes, the world was in darkness, the godmoon and his wife boldly walked the sky. Her belly was hollow, her cut face puffed and swollen. It hurt when she touched it, dried blood flaking from her skin. The cuts in her face were cobbling together, lumps and ridges and soft wet wounds. She had no idea how many highsuns she had slept through. Her body felt trembly, she ate a piece of bread and a piece of cheese, even though eating hurt her face. She drank all the water in her leather flask, then took it with her as she fought her way out to the open hillside. Alone beneath the night sky she crept her way around the barracks wall and counted five closed narrow doors that might give her entrance. She found a water trough for the warriors’ horses along the track leading away from the barracks. She drank from it, then filled her leather flask to the top. No-one saw her. No-one heard her. The world thought she was dead, a spirit walking, and looked straight through her to the stars. When all her bread and cheese was eaten, and the cuts in her face were healed and dry, she crawled out of the thorny trees’ protection for the last time and walked in the newsun light to the barracks wall. Her skin was dirty, her body stank, her tunic and pantaloons were filthy, ripped and stained to stiffness with old dried blood. She looked like a she-brat who’d been running forever. She knew she was anything but beautiful . It was exactly how she wanted to look. She thought even Abajai would not know her now. Yagji would walk past her in the street, his fat face wrinkled, moaning his complaints. The barracks’ large gates weren’t yet open, they didn’t open till two fingers past newsun. But the other doors in the barracks walls opened earlier than that, she had seen it in the days she’d sat and waited. She walked around the wall till she found the first open door and looked through it into the barracks city. She saw pens of goats and sheep, she saw crates of chickens, she saw slaughtered calves hanging on hooks and tubs of gizzards, overflowing. A row of tents, plain brown, not striped and pretty like Abajai’s Trader tent, marched up and down, she could see nothing past them. The ground was bare in places, beaten hard and flat by many feet. Coarse grey-green grass grew in patches. The air was thick with animal smells, with blood stink, with shouted voices from beyond the row of tents. The goats and sheep bleated, the chickens cackled, from somewhere else came the lowing of cattle, the bawling of calves. Scrawny dogs quarreled and hunted for scraps to eat. A young boy stood beside the caged chickens. His godbraids were stubby and he wore no silver godbells. One braid was scarlet, so he was a slave. He wore nothing but a loincloth and a chipped dog-tooth amulet round his neck. He held a cleaver in one hand and a chicken in the other, he was trying to lay the chicken on a chopping block and cut off its head. The chicken was squawking and flapping its wings, the boy was afraid of it. He struck it with a clumsy blow and cut off a finger instead of its head. The chicken cackled and ran away. A huge man came out of a tent to see what all the shrieking was for. He saw the boy with his

blood-spurting finger and smacked him hard across his ear. “Idiot fool!” the big man shouted. “Can’t even cut off a chicken’s head? What use are you when I’m shorthanded already?” The boy was clutching his bleeding stump, he wasted a river of water down his face. Hekat stepped from outside to inside, she crossed the threshold into the barracks. She picked up the cleaver the fool slave-boy had dropped, she snatched a chicken from the nearest crate and cut off its head with a single blow. The boy stopped crying and the big man stared. “Who are you, you ugly brat?” he demanded. “What do you do here, killing my chicken?” She held out the chicken’s twitching corpse. “You wanted a chicken killed. I killed one for you. I am Hekat of Et-Nogolor.” The big man laughed as he took the dead twitching chicken. “Are you now, brat? What happened to your face? Looks like a hunting cat wanted you for dinner.” She had to look a long way up to his eyes. He was the biggest man she had ever seen. “My father married a woman who hated me for my beauty. My father died soon after. The woman who hated me cut off my godbraids, she cut up my face, she said she would sell me and see me die a wretched slave. I ran away from that woman. I ran away to Et-Raklion, Mijak’s city of cities. I can read, and I can write, and I can kill chickens with a single blow. I will serve the city Et-Raklion. I will serve Raklion, its glorious warlord. I will serve you, if you will let me. If I can stay here, in these barracks.” The big man looked down at her. Blood dripped from the chicken’s neck, puddling by his feet. “Ran away from a miserable bitch, did you?” he said. He had a meaty face, his lips were thick, his nose was flat and his teeth were crooked. He wore seven amulets in his ears. “What’s to say you won’t run away from this place, too? Et-Raklion can he a miserable bitch and I was born and bred here, Hekat of Et-Nogolor.” She met his suspicious glare unflinching. “The god sees my heart. My heart is in its eye. It knows Hekat will stay, it knows Hekat will serve.” She shrugged. “Hekat has nowhere else to go.” The big man looked at the chicken she had killed. He looked at the boy with two thumbs, seven fingers and a bleeding stump. “Get to a barracks healer, idiot, he can dip that in hot pitch.” The slave-boy ran off, still sobbing with his stupid pain. “Hekat of Et-Nogolor,” the big man said, looking at her again. His eyes were narrow, wondering. “Can I trust you?” “Hekat of Et-Raklion,” she told him. “I do not know Et-Nogolor.” The big man’s eyes went wide, and then he laughed. “Hekat of Et-Raklion. Kill me all these chickens. Pluck them and gut them and spit them for roasting. Then we will talk about you serving me and the god in Mijak’s city of cities.” She looked around. There was the tub for chicken heads and gizzards. There was the big sack for all their plucked feathers. There was the spit, threaded already. The chickens sat in their fastened cages, shitting and clucking and waiting to die. “My name is Nadik. Fetch me when you’re done,” said the big man, and gave her back the chicken

she’d killed. As he walked away towards his tent, Hekat lifted her head and looked to the godpost at the distant top of Raklion’s Pinnacle. You have chosen me, she told the god.You have brought me to your city Et-Raklion. Now you must show me why I am brought . . . and what it is I will do for you here . PART TWO CHAPTER TEN Raklion, son of Ragilik, beleaguered warlord of Et-Raklion, closed his eyes and released a silent sigh as his high godspeaker’s rage scorched his skin like the god’s wrathful breath. “Nogolor warlord’s insult must not go on breathing, Raklion,” Nagarak thundered. “Et-Nogolor’s Daughter was godpromised to you, not Bajadek. Why do you stand here in your palace, in the sunshine? Why do you not lead your ten thousand warriors to the gates of Et-Nogolor and demand the city’s Daughter as was promised in the god’s eye?” Raklion swallowed annoyance. Keeping his back turned and his voice calm, because shouting would only inflame the man further, he said, “If I am the one insulted, Nagarak, am I not the one who decides if the insult breathes, or must be smothered by ten thousand warriors?” Nagarak stood behind him, in the shadowed doorway to the balcony of his private palace apartments. “You think my godspeaker pride is slighted.” The high godspeaker’s displeasure filled the measured space between them. “You think my tongue is dipped in spite.” Raklion shrugged. “Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is still unblooded, her body cannot yet ripen with child. She has not left her father’s palace, she is not taken by Bajadek warlord. I hear rumors, I am told certain things, but no godpromised oaths are broken, Nagarak. I do not know Nogolor intends to give his girl-child to Bajadek. If I treat rumor as fact and ride with my warriors to Et-Nogolor, to take the Daughterbefore she is blooded, thenI am the oathbreaker.I am the one who shatters the treaty with Nogolor. Surely that is Bajadek’s desire, he desires to provoke me into unwise action. He schemes to make of me a dishonorable man. Should I give him satisfaction? I think I should not.” Nagarak stepped closer. “What you should do, Raklion, is listen to your high godspeaker. While you stand on your honor Bajadek drips poison into Nogolor’s ear. Nogolor listens, he is a weak warlord.” Raklion glanced over his shoulder. “Weak or not he is a warlord with his own high godspeaker, who talks to him as you talk to me. My past is no secret, Nagarak. Perhaps his high godspeaker says I am not fit for Et-Nogolor’s Daughter.” “Not fit?” echoed Nagarak. He sounded baffled. “Warlord, are you ailing? I made the sacrifices. I read the omens. Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is meant foryou . Here is mischief brewed by a godspeaker of Et-Nogolor who has lost his way in the god’s piercing eye. He listens to the whispers of earthbound men . . . or demons.” Moving to the edge of his palace balcony, Raklion looked down at the city sprawled about the Pinnacle’s base. His sunsoaked city, Et-Raklion the glorious, his concubine and his curse. Master of every creature who lived here, in truth he was their slave and slave to the savage demands of his god with no name. The great Raklion warlord: born a fruit of the city’s vine, steeped and pulped in his vinegar history.

Aieee, the god see me. Fingers gripping the balcony’s red stone balustrade till they were bloodless, Raklion bowed his aching head. He was forty-nine and had no son. His past was a shadow, stitched to his heels, it followed him into every corner and was visible in the darkest night. Three warlords’ daughters have I killed in trying to bring forth a living son. I have sired seven and the god has inhaled them all as smoke. Is it to be wondered the warlords give their women to anyone but me? He turned, resting his knotted spine against the stone railing, and looked into Nagarak’s cold, hard face. “It is possible you misread the omens.” Nagarak was young to be a high godspeaker. Barely past forty. He was bones and skin and godbraids, his burning eyes were fixed upon the god. The black scorpion pectoral strapped to his naked chest glowed with flecks of gold and crimson, with the fiery passion of his devotion. Three seasons before he had walked unaided from the godhouse scorpion pit, the god’s choice for its next high godspeaker in Et-Raklion. Eight of his fellow godspeakers had died in that choosing, deluded by demons and lost to hell. He said, “Raklion warlord, I did not misread the omens. The god intends Et-Nogolor’s Daughter for you. To permit Bajadek to entice her away is defiance of the god’s will. Do not defy it. All warlords are men unto the god. Men are stones, to be blasted to powder with its lightest breath.” Raklion nodded. He often felt like breath-blasted stone. Long since he’d ceased to ask why the god took his women, took his sons, reduced his future to a crucible of blackened infant bones. All his prayers in the godhouse, the sacrifices he paid for, the tasking of his penitent flesh, none of that had made a difference. The god still refused him, he did not know why. Unless a man was a godspeaker chosen, the god was unknowable. And even then he sometimes wondered . . . He also wondered if Nagarak understood what it was to be a warlord. Nagarak was wedded to a black stone scorpion, he had no use for fleshly things. “Do you tell me the god desires I should go to war?” he demanded. “Do you tell me I should smite the brother-city treaty with my hammered fist, smash it to shards like a clay pot and send the pieces to Nogolor in a leather pouch? If I do that, Nagarak, he will run to Bajadek like a man runs to his lover. They will kiss and they will fondle, I will have driven him into Bajadek’s eager embrace. Et-Nogolor’s Daughter will slip through my fingers as though the godpromise was never made.” Nagarak banged his fist on his pectoral. “And if you donothing , Raklion, Nogolor will take it as a sign of weakness, he will turn to Bajadek warlord’s strength. He and Bajadek do not hide their flirting, they flirt at highsun so you willsee .” “Nagarak, I have said already this is rumor unproven, Icannot —” “No, not rumor. Truth from Trader Abajai. Do youdistrust this Trader now, when for godmoons uncounted you have swallowed his words like wine?” Raklion turned away, frowning. Trader Abajai was a useful man who dropped information like kernels of corn. Not all had sprouted over the seasons but a wise warlord picked up each one and inspected it, to be safe. “I do not distrust the Trader,” he said at last. Particularly as, in the four fat godmoons since speaking

with Abajai in the palace, others with business in Et-Nogolor had let him know they too had seen Bajadek’s warriors freely riding. “Abajai has also told you of Mijak’s wide browning,” Nagarak continued, relentless. “Of which we have already spoken, and have many eyewitness reports to confirm. Now I say toyou , warlord, the god tells me in the godpool, your brother warlords in their browning lands look on Et-Raklion with hungry eyes and hungrier bellies. If you do not fight for Et-Nogolor’s Daughterthey will say you are weak. They will think to feed their bellies on the fat of Et-Raklion, they will call secret treaty in the Heart of Mijak and plot war against you.” Again his fist struck the black scorpion pectoral. His godbraids trembled, so many godbells and amulets it was hard to see the hair. “I tell you this, Raklion. A warning from the god.” “And what does the god say of Mijak’s browning?” Raklion said. “Anything? Does it tell you why the underground waters slowly recede from my brother warlords’ lands, leaving onlymy lands green and fertile?” Nagarak’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Not even a high godspeaker demands answers from the god. When you are meant to know its reasons it will tell me, and I will tell you.” It was not enough. “I must know the god’s purpose, Nagarak. It seems to me I am punished with a lack of sons, yet favored with green and growing lands. Have I displeased the god or have I not?Tell me! How can I be warlord if I do not know?” “You undergo a test of faith,” said Nagarak, after a moment. “To be endured without question. To question is to displease the god. A man who questions is food for demons, his godspark will be eaten, his flesh torn apart in the god’s eye.” Throttling fear, Raklion pressed fingers to his throbbing eyes.I am faithful, I do not question . The browning of Mijak was a problem he must put aside, he had more immediate concerns. “And in the matter of Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. If I ride against Nogolor, spill the blood of a brother warlord without a sin committed against me, if I spill my warriors’ blood in that same spilling, do I not also displease the god? Nagarak high godspeaker, hear my heart. I am a true warlord of Et-Raklion. The scars of my body attest to this. But unless you say to me there is an omen that Imust go to war with Nogolor warlord, and you show me that omen, I will not take ten thousand warriors to Et-Nogolor. I will not take so few as ten.” Nagarak stiffened. “Warlord—” “How can I, Nagarak?” he persisted. “How can I risk death in a sinful war when no son of mine lives to give his name to this city? Surely the god would strike me down if I flouted its law so openly. If I die with no son, Nagarak, I abandon Et-Raklion and all its rich farmlands, its vineyards, its villages, its rivers, its springs, its cool lakes, its herds of horses and cattle, its wild birds flying, its people,my people, I abandon them to an unknown future. You say the warlords are hungry for Et-Raklion? If I am not alive to protect it, Et-Raklion will be devoured!Is there an omen?” “There is no omen,” said Nagarak sourly, after a long sunfilled silence. “Yet.” Raklion felt his clutched belly loosen. “Here is what I will call an omen, Nagarak. Let the god tell you when the Daughter is blooded. If Nogolor warlord does not send her to me, if after her blooding Bajadek’s warriors ride free in his lands or ride with Bajadek warlord to Nogolor’s city,then will I say the god sends me to war.Then will Raklion and his warhost ride to Et-Nogolor and take what was promised, spilling blood if he must.”

Nagarak frowned. “That is an omen from the god.” He nodded sharply. “The god see you, Raklion warlord. The god see you in its eye.” “The god see you in its eye, Nagarak high godspeaker,” Raklion replied, dismissing him with all formality. Alone, he paced his balcony for a small time, then struck the hammer to his chamber’s bronze summoning gong. “Send at once to Hanochek warleader,” he commanded the answering slave. “I would see him in my eye.” When Hanochek came at last into his warlord’s presence he was filthy with dust and sweat. Custom decreed no man might stand before a warlord rank with toil, but Hanochek was rash and sometimes careless of custom. “Warlord!” he said, his knuckled fist pressed to his leather breast. The godsnake blazoned there winked and leered. “I was thinking you had forgotten my name.” Raklion smiled. He and Hanochek shared no blood-tie yet so alike were they in thought and feeling they might have slithered from a single womb. Twelve seasons the younger, the difference never noticed, Hanochek was his trusted warleader, they led the warhost side by side. Hanochek was brother to him as his own dead blood brother had never been. “No,” he said. “But did you forget the purpose of water?” Hanochek considered his unkempt body, short and muscular and dangerous as a knife. “I did. When the palace slave presented your summons I forgot everything, including how to ride a horse. I ran here till my legs begged for mercy. My stallion waits yet with an empty saddle.” He was grinning, so sure he was in no danger of rebuke. “I thought making you wait was the greater offense.” “You were training?” Hanochek nodded. “I was training.” “How is my warhost?” “Longing for the sound of your voice, your face in its eye.” Hanochek’s gaze dimmed with shadows. “You have been many highsuns in your palace.” Raklion gestured at the balcony’s chairs. “Come sit with me in the sunshine, Hano. My old bones need the warmth and it seems an age since we have spoken.” “Old bones,” scoffed Hanochek. “If your bones are old, then so must mine be, and mine are the bones of a stripling youth!” “You contradict your warlord?” Raklion teased, dropping onto spotted horsehide cushions. “Brave warrior indeed.” Beside him stood a potted fig tree, drooping with ripe fruit. He plucked four soft sweet figs and held them out to his friend. Hano took them and settled into the balcony’s other chair. “My thanks,” he said, around a moist mouthful. “Training works up a hearty appetite.”

Raklion plucked four plump figs for himself and let his head fall back, content to hold them for the moment. “I am notthat old, Hano. I remember.” Hanochek ate swiftly, like a greedy boy. When his last fig was swallowed he belched and wiped sticky fingers on his linen training tunic, adding to its stains. “So, Raklion warlord. When do we ride for Et-Nogolor’s Daughter?” Now it was time to eat a fig. Raklion chewed slowly, letting his hooded gaze rest on the city. The view from his palace was like a woman’s stroking fingers, it never failed to smooth his brow. Et-Raklion city may well be his concubine and his curse but still he loved it, to the very last pebble and drop of spilled ale. He loved its roofs and windows, its alleys and wide streets, its districts and its slaves. It was the city of cities, it deserved his devotion. “Why should I ride for Et-Nogolor’s Daughter?” he asked, showing no temper. “She will ride to me soon enough, when she is blooded.” Hano’s gaze sharpened. He had keen eyes, deeply set in his flat, broad face. “Did you summon me to play games, Raklion? You are the warlord, you hear whispers in the dark. I hear them. Your warhost hears them. Even the slaves in the barracks hear them. Your warhost is angry, it feels insulted.” That word again. “Nagarak high godspeaker reads omens in a lamb’s tongue,” he countered. “Do these whispers of yours shout louder than that?” “Has the high godspeaker given you an omen?” He ate a second fig. “No. Like you, Nagarak gives me warlike advice.” “I am a warrior,” said Hano, shrugging. “I have no other advice to give.” “I know.” Raklion slid his gaze sideways. “You think we should lead the warhost to Et-Nogolor?” “I do.” Hano stared. “You disagree?” Raklion did not answer, brooding. Hano waited, brooding with him. At length he stirred, his troubled gaze lingering on the rich green carpet of grapevines growing beyond the city. “Nogolor is a godpromised husband tempted by a whore. He thinks to fuck the whore and escape his promised wife’s anger.” He looked at Hano. “But thinking is not fucking. A man may think of many things, but until he acts he has committed no sin.” “True,” admitted Hano. “But if the promised wife knows he thinks of fucking the whore and says nothing to him of her knowing, does she not give that godpromised husband her blessing to dally outside their oath?” A sharp question. “A man may suspect another man’s thoughts, Hano, but only the god can know his heart. Only its godspeakers can point and say, this man is for stoning, he breaks the god’s law. Smiting is of the god, not man.” “You could discourage the whore, Raklion. No-one can question Bajadek’s intent.” Raklion shook his head. “Bajadek has committed no sin. It is not sinful to ride invited through the lands of another warlord. He has made me no godpromise, Nogolor’s word to me is nothing to him. He cares

only for his own portion, all warlords are alike in this.” “Raklion . . .” Hano’s frustration knotted his voice. “Bajadek warlord tempts Nogolor to oathbreaking. He must not go unpunished for that. You must—” “I must do what is best for Et-Raklion! Is bloodshed best? A broken treaty? Abandoned trade, unsettled borders, disrupted days like a string of beads, are these things best for my city’s people, for the people of my Et-Raklion lands?” Hano looked at him. “A healthy son is best for Et-Raklion. And for that you must fuck a wife of warlord bloodlines.” Words like a spear-point, piercing him to death. Raklion pushed away from his horsehide cushions, out of his chair to the length of the balcony. “I know that, Hano,” he said, and looked at his clenched fist. Ripe fig dripped between his fingers, the clean Pinnacle air was sweetened with fig juice. He made a face and smeared his hand along the stone balustrade. “And I know it is likely we will soon be at war, if Nogolor warlord stops thinking and acts, if he breaks his godpromise to me and gives the Daughter to Bajadek instead. That is why I summoned you, warleader. Nagarak in the godhouse awaits the god’s omen. Should it come, the warhost must be ready to ride.” “It is ready,” said Hano. He sounded pleased. Relieved. “Come see for yourself. Leave your palace, come to the barracks and mingle with your warriors. Dance some time on the training field with them. You have godspeakers to manage Et-Raklion, they can manage it without you for a time. But only you can manage the warhost. How long is it since you set foot in the barracks?” He had to think. “Two godmoons, twelve highsuns. You are right, warleader. Nagarak’s godspeakers do not need my help in counting taxes and smiting sinners. My place is in the barracks, not this palace.” He released a soft and sorrowful sigh. “It will hurt my heart to see my warriors, Hano. Knowing an omen will send them to war.” “Warriors fight, warlord,” said Hano, brusquely. “Warriors live and die with the spear, the arrow, the sword, the knife. The god gives them fierceness, it drinks their blood. War is their purpose, it is their pleasure. Can you love them and deny them that?” Raklion turned. “I do not shrink from bloodshed, Hano. I shrink from waste. From death without purpose.” “Which is why your warriors love you,” said Hano. “And why they are eager to ride against Bajadek, the usurping sinner, and against Nogolor too if he proves a false friend. Now enough talking.Come . Ease your tired mind with sweat. Rest yourself in honest striving.” Raklion smiled, he could not help it. “Very well, Hano.If you promise to cease your nagging.” Hano stood and pressed a fist to his breast, his unspoken word. “Dress yourself in your finest training tunic, warlord, as I send a slave to summon your chariot. Your warriors are waiting, they will shout to see you.” Hanochek was the finest charioteer in all Et-Raklion, he knew the horses’ minds as though they were his own, his touch on the reins was light and sure. The chariot horses loved him. Sheathed in thinly beaten

gold, the warlord’s chariot was the most beautiful in the warhost, it made a man beautiful to ride within it. Two snake-bound godposts topped with crimson scorpions guarded the chariot’s occupants. Sunlight glittered on rubies and emeralds, on lapis lazuli and flaming firestone. Silver godbells sang and rang on the black horses’ crimson harness, from the lip and rim of the golden chariot. Sunlight sparked on their myriad amulets. Raklion felt the fresh breeze in his face and laughed aloud. “This is good, Hano. Do not let me stay so long in my palace again.” “I won’t, I promise,” said Hano, grinning. “A man cannot breathe within stone walls. Beneath the sky a man can breathe. He can breathe and he can see. Beneath the sky a man can think. He can run and throw a spear, he can sweat, he can sing.” “All that is true,” said Raklion. “But alas, there is more to a warlord than sweating and singing.” Hano glanced at him. “Yes. There is worry. There are treaties. Godspeakers with questions and tally-tablets and city problems you must solve.” He pulled a face. “There is Nagarak high godspeaker, who wills you to war. I confess that is curious, Raklion. War is the warlord’s business, Nagarak should feed his scorpions and leave it to you.” They were alone on the road between the palace and the warriors’ barracks, but Raklion thumped Hano’s shoulder anyway. “Say that in company and hewill feed his scorpions—with your stoned dead flesh.” “You do not think his warlike advice strange?” Raklion shrugged. “Where Nagarak is concerned I do not think at all.” Which was a lie, but he would not talk of high godspeakers to Hano. On some matters did a warlord hide his thoughts from all save the god. Hano was a good man but he had a warrior’s heart. Straight and true like an arrow in flight, it was not made for twisting shadows. The chariot traveled swiftly, as they drew close to the warriors’ barracks. The main gates stood open, the warrior on gatekeep duty heard the chariot’s wheels upon the road, heard the horses’ drumming hooves and their godbells loudly singing, and came out to see who approached. She saw her warlord and waved her snakeblade in the air. “Behold the god’s chosen!” she shouted, her voice carrying clearly from the gatekeep. She rang the gate’s godbell, still shouting. “Behold our warlord, Raklion warlord! The god see you, warlord, the god see you in its smiting eye!” “Minka,” said Hano softly, as he eased the chariot horses back to a walk, that they might pass the barracks godpost sedately. “Daughter of Yolen. He lost a leg in—” “I remember Yolen,” said Raklion. “When did he give a daughter to the barracks?” “Last thin godmoon.” “Do you know her? Does Yolen breed true?” Hano grinned. “True enough. She’s sent four warriors to the healer’s tent since she started her training. I have seen far worse in my time.”

“Your warlord sees you, Minka,” Raklion said as they passed between the barracks’ open gates. “Does service in his warhost please you?” Minka’s nose had been broken already. It skewed sideways on her narrow face, left her snuffling for air. With her snakeblade safely sheathed she punched her fist against her breast. Her eyes glowed, to be noticed by her warlord was an honor. “I like it well, Raklion warlord. I will serve you to my last red drop of blood.” “A warrior’s oath,” he said, and nodded his pleasure as the chariot passed her by. The weight of her smile between his shoulder-blades was heavy as godsmite. At the barracks godpost he pulled his solid gold snake-eye amulet from around his neck and dropped it in the godbowl, where it outshone the iron, the bronze, the clumsily carved carnelian. But the warriors liked to see his gold there, and so did the godspeakers sent to retrieve the warriors’ offerings. The godhouse always liked to see gifts of gold. Hano nudged him with an elbow. “Did I not tell you the warlord is missed?” he murmured. Raklion looked up. Gathering on either side of the main road through the barracks, his beautiful warriors in their tunics and godbraids. Some had emptied their shields from leather shield-bags, they held them high and tapped their spear-butts and knife-hilts hard against them, a joyful fierce tattoo of welcome. Every mouth shouted, over and over: “Raklion! Raklion! Raklion!” Bare feet drummed against the ground, pipes whistled, while behind them Minka, daughter of Yolen, loudly sounded the barrack’s godbell. “Raklion! Raklion! Raklion!” In the palace there was a brideroom, empty. A child’s cot, empty. In the palace were slaves and servants and empty rooms. “Raklion! Raklion! Raklion!” Hano stopped the chariot and Raklion climbed down, he put his bare feet on the soil and walked with laughter among his warriors. His burdened heart lightened. Sunshine and shouting chased away the shadows. His warriors crowded round him, they reached out their hands, they touched his godbraids and the hem of his tunic, they welcomed him home like a long-lost brother. “Raklion! Raklion! Raklion!” CHAPTER ELEVEN First of all he sparred with his spear-carriers, then watched his archers and slingshot throwers hone their skills among a herd of meat-goats. A good strike with a shot-stone would drop a goat dead with its skull crushed. No differently a man. And an arrow to the heart killed any living thing. It took much meat to feed his warhost, they practiced often in the slaughter pit and cook-slaves dragged the carcasses away. Next he cheered a chariot race. His warhost boasted five hundred chariots, too many for racing. His

charioteers drew lots, the disappointed losers gathered with him and Hano in the stands around the chariot arena and watched the chosen twenty drivers race each other with pride as the prize. He gave the victorious charioteer Saraket a gold and onyx ring from his finger and paid fulsome compliment to Bodrik Chariot-leader, then lastly went to watch his knife-dancers. Often in battle the last desperate moments were reduced to this, to another warrior’s killing eyes, the knife-blade glinting in his hand. Dirt churned to bloody mud, slippery and treacherous. Who was fastest, strongest, most determined to survive. A knife-dancer who forgot the steps was a dead man dancing on a grain of sand. Raklion smiled to see his warriors weave and glide and leap through the set knife-dance patterns, the hotas , passed down from warrior to warrior from the world’s first newsun. He sat on a stuffed calf-hide with Hano on another beside him and lost himself in the measured thumping of the knife-dance drum, the slow-motion sweeping of the sinuous snakeblades. Ten shells of warriors danced before him, thirty in each. The trod ground hummed beneath their feet, silver godbells sang in their swaying godbraids, they danced as one warrior beneath the sun. Hano chuckled and nudged him, pointing through a gap in the crowd of watching warriors. “Look there, warlord. See?” He looked. A skinny stripling child dressed in a ragged dirty tunic watched alone at the edge of the knife-dance field. Its godbraids were short and stubby, each end glued together with pitch. It stared at the knife-dancers and mirrored their sure movements through each complicatedhota , showing promise, though its form was crude and riddled with error. It held a stick instead of a blade, but with the same amount of reverence as the warriors it echoed. The child’s thin back was to him, he couldn’t see its face. Amused, Raklion watched the brat dance its way through thehotas . Obviously it knew them well, it did not hesitate when one shifted to another, then another, cycling through the ordered routine. After a time he stood, motioning Hano to stay seated, lifting a finger to Zapotar Knife-dance leader as he saw the mimicking ragtag child and took a scowling step towards it. Zapotar lowered his head and stepped back, perfectly obedient. Hano looked up at him, still smiling. “You think you have found another warrior?” “I think to satisfy my curiosity,” Raklion replied. He threaded his way through the crowd of warriors and stopped three paces from the child. It ignored him, or was oblivious to his presence. As he watched, it attempted the supremely difficult falcon-dancing-over-the-meadowhota . One bare foot brushed against the other as it spun, the rhythm was ruined, the child fumbled the stick-knife and dropped it on the ground. “Tchut tchut tchut!” it scolded, and bent to retrieve its pretend snakeblade. As he laughed at its crossness, the child straightened and turned. Raklion felt the world stand still. The child was female, a ruined beauty. Her brows were delicate, arching over deep-set eyes of clearest blue. Her lashes were long enough to cast a shadow, and extravagantly curved. Her nose was straight, thin nostrils flaring, her lips were full and blushed pale pink. Her small ears lay flat against her head, her cheekbones jutted high and haughty. Her rich dark skin shone with sweat from dancing. Laid upon that fine-boned face, a spiderweb of livid knotted scars.

His heart broke in his breast to see them. “You like my knife-dancers, little girl?” he asked her, though she was not so little or such a girl, there were breasts beneath her dirty tunic, and hips, and long shapely legs. His loins were hot and heavy before her. She looked him up and down. All her hair was black, no scarlet slave-braid. She was freeborn, a citizen of Mijak. “Yours?” He laughed. “Yes. Mine.” He flicked one hand, to take in the warriors and their training fields and the distant barracks wall. “All of this is mine. I am Raklion warlord.” Her glorious eyes widened in her spoiled face. “You are the warlord of Et-Raklion?” “I have said so. And who are you?” “I am Hekat of Et-Raklion.” “Which means you also belong to me.” Her scarred chin lifted. “Hekat belongs to the god with no name. She is its creature, born to its will.” “All the creatures beneath the sun belongs to the god,” he said, amused by her vehemence and her quaint turn of phrase. She had an unusual accent, not one he’d heard before. “And all creatures in Et-Raklion belong to me after the god. You wish to be a knife-dancer, Hekat of Et-Raklion?” Her blue gaze shifted to his knife-dancers and theirhota . “I wish to be a knife-dancer,” she answered him. “I wish to be a charioteer. I wish to shoot an arrow, sling a shot-stone, bury my spear-point in an enemy’s throat. I wish to be a warrior, warlord.” The calm declaration moved him. “And what are you now, Hekat of Et-Raklion?” Her lips pursed in disgust. “I am a killer of chickens, I slaughter sheep.” He looked at her ragged tunic and saw the old bloodstains there. “What happened to your face?” “My face?” She raised a hand, traced a fingertip along its raw red lines, the ridges of imperfectly healed flesh. “My face was a curse, Raklion warlord. My beauty was a burden. It was cut away, by the will of the god.” “The god sees you in its eye, Hekat, that you could be so cut upon and yet not die.” “The god sees me in its eye always, warlord,” she said. Her frank gaze glittered strangely. “And my scars see the god.” “Who cut you, Hekat?” She shrugged. “Some woman, she is not important. I forget her name, I cannot say it.” Was that a lie? He could not tell. It did not matter. She was scarred, her beauty destroyed. That did not matter either, though he mourned its loss. Warriors had no need for beauty in the face, a warrior’s beauty

was speed and strength, a lust for blood, the knack of survival. “Why should I grant your bold request, Hekat? Why should I make you a warrior of Et-Raklion?” She looked at him with those clear blue eyes, in their depths burned a fervent flame. “Because it is the will of the god, warlord. Hear it whisper in your heart. It whispers to you:make Hekat a warrior .” So much certainty in so small a body. Did the god whisper, or was that heat his stirred blood calling? Better to err on the side of caution. Any warlord who ignored the god invited disaster, triple-fold. He looked where Zapotar Knife-dance leader waited with Hanochek, pretending not to be puzzled by his warlord talking to a bratty child. Zapotar answered his beckoning call, like a falcon to the wrist. “Warlord?” “This is Hekat of Et-Raklion. She wishes to be my warrior.” Zapotar frowned. “Many wish to be your warrior, warlord.” “I wish her to be my warrior also, Zapotar. I wish for her to train first with you. Seek out a godspeaker, pay for sacrifice and the proper omen-reading.” Zapotar wore battle scars the way other men wore amulets. Unlike Hekat, he’d had no beauty to ruin. His scars twitched in his cheeks as he nodded. “Warlord.” “I cannot be a knife-dancer now?” the child Hekat demanded. She sounded displeased. Bold child. Fearless child. What a warrior she would make! “No. Not now. The timing is a matter of omen,” said Raklion. “Kill me more chickens, Hekat. Slaughter me some sheep. That is service to your warlord. Zapotar will send to the cook-tents when your Knife-dance days can begin.” After a moment’s thinking, she nodded. “Hekat obeys you, warlord. When I have learned the knife-dancehotas will you make me a charioteer? Will you give me a bow, a slingshot, a spear to thrust into your enemies’ throats?” “You have a fierce thirst for blood, child,” he said, almost laughing. There was no laughter in her face, her eyes were not the eyes of a child. “I thirst for the glory of Et-Raklion, warlord. I thirst for the glory of Mijak and the god.” He could see that. He left her watching the last of thehotas and returned to Hano. “Is your curiosity satisfied, warlord?” Raklion smiled, briefly. “My warhost stands at ten thousand and one.” “You take her as a warrior, Raklion?” said Hano, eyes narrowing. “What are her bloodlines? Who is her sire? What woman birthed her? Where is she from?” Hano was displeased, as warleader it was his right, his duty, to approve new warriors admitted to the

warhost. “Tcha,” said Raklion, gently reproving. “Do you doubt my instincts, Hanochek warleader? Am I an old man now, blind and infirm?” “You were the one complaining about old bones,” Hano muttered. “Warlord—” “Enough,” he said. “She is chosen. I am the warlord, do you presume to chide?” “No,” said Hano, and lowered his hot gaze. “Forgive me, warlord. I was surprised.” Not as surprised as I am, Hano. But he did not say that. For all they were best friends and as close as brothers, there was a distance between them. There was a distance between the warlord and every man, woman and child he protected. More and more frequently, he found it oppressive. If only my blood brother had not died. If only I were a plain, simple man. Thehotas ended. Hanochek stood. “Will you join us in feasting, Raklion warlord?” he said, strictly formal. “Your warhost would be honored.” Raklion frowned. “I should go to the godhouse.” “The godhouse isn’t going anywhere,” said Hano, his formality softened, his moment of displeasure passing. “Stay. We have missed you. I have missed you. Feast with your warriors, who will soon ride to war.” Nagarak would send word if the god spoke in omens tonight. He could eat here, or in the palace. Alone, or with good company, among his beloved warriors. “I will stay,” he decided, and was warmed by Hano’s smothered delight. As he walked from the knife-dance field at Hano’s side he flicked a last glance over his shoulder but the child Hekat was gone now, returned to her cook-tent and the animal killing that awaited her there. He felt a twinge of disappointment and scoffed at himself.Foolish old man, she is just a brat like countless others. She will be swallowed by your warhost, you will forget her between now and the next fat godmoon . His loins, remembering, told him he lied. Hano said something, and he abandoned uncomfortable thought to pay attention. Highsuns passed, with no word of war omens from the godhouse. The godmoon waned thin, waxed fat, waned thin again. Raklion waited, he resisted the urge to send word to Nogolor, to sweetly inquire how the Daughter prospered, if there came any sign that her blood-time was on her. He ceased his haunting of the palace, he trained with his warriors, conducted city business, attended sacrifice, he winnowed more kernels of passed-on information, he bided and bided and bided his time. Five godmoons and eight highsuns after receiving report from Trader Abajai, Nagarak summoned him to his presence. Only a high godspeaker might send for a warlord as though he were an ordinary man. Raklion obeyed the summons, they met in private, in Nagarak’s austere audience chamber at the top of the four-storey godhouse.

“The Daughter is blooded,” said Nagarak abruptly. He was never one for easing into conversation. “The god has told me in the godpool. Take your warriors, warlord, and ride to claim her.” Only a warlord did not kneel in audience with the high godspeaker. Not unless it was a tasking. Raklion looked at the chamber’s bare stone walls, its bare stone floor, the altar at the window, the stone desk piled high with tablets. At Nagarak on his stone chair, bathed in warm light. A bleak room. A stark room. A room with no comfort, no concession to flesh. So many times had he been here, yet each visit came as an unpleasant shock. Here is Nagarak’s godspark, revealed. No need for anything but the god. “I will not ride yet,” he said, content to stand. Which was convenient, since Nagarak provided no other seat. “Let Nogolor have his chance to inform me. Let him honor his godpromise, and send the Daughter here. That was the oath we made. He knows it is my expectation.” “And we know he has no intention of meeting it.” Raklion shrugged. “Do we? I know nothing, Nagarak. I have only suspicion. I will give him twenty highsuns. That is enough time for godhouse rites, and for the Daughter to be escorted to my palace.” Nagarak was unhappy, but this was warlord business. “Twenty highsuns,” he said, his expression grudging. “But not one finger longer, Raklion. After twenty highsuns this becomes a godhouse matter. If the Daughter does not come I will ride with you to Et-Nogolor, that the god might show Nogolor and his high godspeaker the error of their ways.” Suppressing a shudder, Raklion nodded. “We are agreed then, Nagarak high godspeaker. We wait twenty highsuns before we ride.” Twenty highsuns passed, Et-Nogolor’s Daughter did not come. At newsun on the twenty-first day, after sacrifice and solemn anointing, Raklion led a warhost of one thousand warriors to Et-Nogolor, to claim from its warlord his godpromised wife. Hekat traveled with Nadik and ten other cook-brats in the cook’s wagon at the rear of the warhost. At its head, Raklion warlord rode a splendid blue spotted stallion. He was not a young man, threads of silver glittered in his godbraids. His body was strong, though, his spine sat straight above his hips, he walked with the loose gait of a fighting man. At his right hand rode the warleader Hanochek, at his left Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker Nagarak. She’d only caught a glimpse of Nagarak, she knew he wore a giant stone scorpion strapped to his scrawny chest, and had heard enough among the chattering warriors to know he was feared above all men. Above all godspeakers, more than any high godspeaker in living memory. She wondered if Nagarak knew of her. If the god had told him of its plans for her. She sometimes wanted to know them so badly her head ached and her belly twisted. The god will tell you, chosen Hekat. It will tell you in its time. She traveled in the cook’s wagon because she wasn’t yet a knife-dancer, no word of omens had come from Zapotar. She was losing patience, she suspected Zapotar of interference, of dawdling in the hope she would be forgotten.

I will not be forgotten. I am here for the god. She would wait until they returned to Et-Raklion, then she would go to the godhouse herself. She would pay a bronze coin to the godspeakers and the god would tellher it was time. So much for Zapotar,he would be beaten or worse for daring to thwart the god’s desire. At lowsun, after the march towards Et-Nogolor stopped and the warhost made its camp and attended sacrifice, she ran up and down the lines with bowls of salted goat and cornmush. She loved the warriors, they were tall and proud, they oiled their muscles and sharpened their snakeblades, they smiled at her when she handed them dinner, they knew who she was. Word had spread swiftly of the barracks brat who’d caught the warlord’s eye, who was soon to be a knife-dancer. She was young, she was ugly, her face was full of scars. They were not threatened, they found her amusing. They would not always, but that could wait. Raklion warlord was one she did not serve. He had his own body slaves to attend him, he sat with Hanochek warleader and together they made warlord plans. She did not serve the high godspeaker, either, but she was not sorry. He made her skin crawl. He ate with the godspeakers riding with them, they kept to themselves, just like the godspeakers in the caravan from Et-Nogolor. She finished running bowls of food up and down the lines of warriors and returned to the cooks’ camp where it was her duty now to clean the pots and pans and make everything ready for breakfast at newsun. This was just like being on the road with Abajai and Yagji, except for the complaining. She wondered about the Traders, sometimes. Had they ever tried to look for her? Had they given her up as dead? Had they beaten that stupid slave Retoth, as he deserved? It didn’t matter. That was her dead life, like the village in the north. She would be a warrior soon. That was her next life. She was eager for it like the barracks dogs slavered for blood and chicken gizzards. When her camp work was done she took a lit torch and the sharpened stick she’d brought with her from Et-Raklion; she crouched on a patch of smoothed dirt and practiced her letters. Reading and writing were important, if they weren’t Abajai would never have spent coin on them. She would not lose her reading and writing. They made her different, they made her special. I will serve the god better if I read and write. Serving the god was her purpose in the world. At the border godpost between Et-Raklion and Et-Nogolor, Nagarak made sacrifice for the journey’s good outcome. Raklion warlord drank the hot bull-calf blood, he cut his breast with the sacrificial knife and let his own blood drip into the sacrifice bowl. Hekat was impressed. That was a true sacrifice, to give the god his own blood. Raklion was strong, he was proud, he was a man who loved the god. She would serve him as his warrior and what must come, would come. They reached Et-Nogolor city ten highsuns after crossing the border. In that traveling time they saw no other warriors, from Et-Nogolor or Et-Bajadek. They saw workers in the fields of wheat and corn, cattle and horses grazing the dry plain, they saw carts in the distance rolling to and from the villages of Nogolor warlord. That was all. Even when they rode past Et-Nogolor’s barracks, squatting so close to the city, no warriors spilled out to offer them war.

Raklion warlord was clever, he timed their arrival for two fingers past newsun, when Et-Nogolor city was stirring at first light. The warlord and his thousand chosen warriors did not try to pass through the city gates. To enter uninvited would be an act of war, Hekat had learned that much from listening to Raklion’s warriors. Raklion warlord’s purpose was not war, not yet. Not unless he was refused his godpromised wife, the Daughter of Et-Nogolor. As the warhost halted outside the gates, Hekat looked at the city with contempt. After Et-Raklion, Et-Nogolor was nothing, a hillock. She remembered herself as she was the last time she’d been here, small and slaved and owned by Abajai. Ignorant of her place in the god’s eye. She does not matter. That child is dead. Raklion warlord and Nagarak high godspeaker rode to meet Et-Nogolor’s Gatekeeper. Behind them the warhost sat on their striped and spotted and solid brown and red horses, they held their spears at rest beside them and told rude jokes. A rising breeze tossed the horses’ manes and tails, tossed the warriors’ godbraids and shivered the air with the songs of silver godbells. Hekat sat in the cook’s wagon with Nadik and longed to be one of the thousand, with a horse and a spear to fill Et-Nogolor’s warriors with fear. The Gatekeeper who left Et-Nogolor’s gate to meet with Raklion and Nagarak was the same one who’d let Abajai and Yagji and the slave train enter his city. He met with Raklion and Nagarak halfway between the gate and the warriors, too far away for their talking to be heard. After a little time the Gatekeeper bowed and walked back to Et-Nogolor’s gate as Raklion warlord and his high godspeaker returned to the warhost. “Warriors of Et-Raklion!” the warlord said, bold and mighty on his spotted blue stallion. “Word is sent to Nogolor warlord, here is his treaty-brother Raklion come to claim his godpromised wife. Let us play awhile as we wait for her.” The warhost shouted raucous approval. Beside her in the cook’s wagon, Nadik laughed. “Ah, he’s a wily one, that Raklion warlord. Warriors dancing on his doorstep will give Nogolor warlord fat to chew.” “Will the warriors of Et-Raklion and Et-Nogolor do battle, Nadik?” she asked him. He glanced at her. He wasn’t happy she would soon be a warrior, she was the best chicken-killer he had. But he was only a cook, his want did not matter. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bloodthirsty brat.” He shrugged. “The god will decide. It is not my business, it is not yours yet. Pots and seasoning, that is our business.” “Yes, Nadik,” she said, and asked no more questions. He was like Retoth, a small nothing person who left no footprints on the world. Not like Raklion. Not like me. Horses bred in the lands of Et-Raklion were wiry and tough, they could dance without rest from newsun to newsun. Hekat sat in the cook-wagon with Nadik and the other cook-brats, smiling she watched Hanochek warleader and Raklion’s warriors as they danced upon the plain with their tough wiry horses.

Running, leaping, vaulting in and out of their saddles, flipping from horse to horse and back again, riding in pairs, in fours, in eights, in tens, weaving patterns on the dry grass, tossing knives and spears to each other as they passed knee to knee at a pounding gallop. Raklion warlord watched them in silence, on his spotted stallion beside his high godspeaker whose clasping stone scorpion flashed black fire in the light. One finger past highsun the bell in Et-Nogolor’s godhouse sounded. It pealed over the city, over the brown plain, over Raklion warlord’s dancing warriors. Raklion warlord held up his fist. As one horse, one rider, his warleader and his warhost wheeled to a stop. All eyes looked to the gates of Et-Nogolor. The godhouse bell rang out again. Et-Nogolor’s Gatekeeper stepped from the shadows, he sounded a booming ram’s horn banded with gold. Raklion warlord with Nagarak beside him rode halfway towards the gatekeep and stopped. Through the gates of Et-Nogolor rode two tall men, on horses pale as desert sand. Behind them in a snake-spine two horses wide, warriors of Et-Nogolor. Nadik let out his breath in a hissing stream. “Nogolor warlord!” he whispered, pointing to the man with a headdress full of feathers. His fingers curled round his snake-fang amulet. “The other is his high godspeaker, he wears the scorpion pectoral, see?” Hekat leaned forward, smiling and fierce, as Et-Nogolor’s warlord and his high godspeaker led his warriors out of the city. Show me, god. Show me which warlord you favor in your eye. It would be Raklion, she was sure already. And she also knew that what happened here, what was done in this place, would shape her life for seasons to come. Show me, god. Hekat is waiting. CHAPTER TWELVE Raklion watched Nogolor warlord ride to greet him, trailing warriors like a snake shedding its skin. First of those were Nogolor’s sons Tebek and Kilik. At Nogolor’s left hand rode his high godspeaker. Nagarak made a disapproving sound deep in his throat. “Grakilon.” He spat on the grass. Raklion hid his surprise. What business there was between high godspeakers was no business of his, or any man in the world outside the godhouse. The faces godspeakers showed in public were not the faces they showed each other and the god. “You do not trust him, Nagarak?” “We studied the god together as novices. He has an arrogant mind. You will not deal with him, warlord. Grakilon is mine to chastise here.” Raklion hid his wry smile. A godspeaker was not a godspeaker without an arrogant mind. High

godspeakers were the most arrogant of all. He had outlived two with Nagarak his third, they were all the same. “The god’s business here is your business,” he agreed. “You are high godspeaker, it is the god’s desire. Warlords’ business belongs to me. That ismy desire.” Nagarak grunted. His fingers were loose upon the reins, he sat softly in his saddle, but tension rose from his skin like heat from a sunbaked rock. Raklion considered him from the corner of his eye. Was this personal, then, between Nagarak and Grakilon? If it was personal Nagarak should have said so before they left Et-Raklion. Nagarak had no business keeping secrets from his warlord. Not secrets that did not belong to the god. He had trouble enough without the godspeakers of Mijak raising spears to each other. “Nagarak,” he said sharply. “This is not a battle for the god.” Again, a grunt from Nagarak. “All battles are for the god, warlord.” Aieee. There was no arguing with a godspeaker. “Nogolor warlord is upon us. Use silence as a weapon.” As Nogolor approached, Raklion stared intently at his brother-warlord’s face. He had always been a good reader of men, he read them better than he read any clay tablet handed to him by a scribe. Nogolor’s face told of fear and uncertainty, of advice followed that he now regretted. Nogolor was ageing for a warlord, fifty-seven seasons on his head. The treaty between their two cities had been signed by their fathers, in those great men’s green days. Were Nogolor’s wits shriveling under the sun, that he would risk their long and profitable alliance? Who whispered the advice he now regretted? Grakilon, mistrusted by Nagarak? Or Bajadek warlord, with ambitions of his own? It does not matter. All whispers of treachery betray me. I must whisper louder. I must shout down the voice who would break our treaty. Grakilon high godspeaker was seasons older than Nagarak. His godbraids were bleached as bone, the weight of his blue scorpion pectoral looked enough to kill him. Their burning eyes were the same, though, eyes that feasted on the god and devoured men like mice. He rode beside Nogolor as a vulture shadows a dying beast. Nogolor’s warriors were young and proud, as his own were young and proud. They looked eager, as his own were eager, to test their mettle in a dancing of knives. Nogolor’s sons looked the keenest of all. Raklion hoped it would not come to that, he knew too well the pain of dead sons. He had no desire to spill their blood for a broken treaty. If it is broken. In this moment the god gives me a chance to save it. For the sake of my warriors and my unborn son, I must succeed. Nogolor rode a silver-sheened horse of Et-Raklion breeding. He halted it three paces distant and said, “Brother Raklion. You come upon us unannounced.” Raklion smiled. “I did not know a brother needed to announce his visit.” “It is held polite to do so,” said Nogolor. He did not smile in return, his eyes were shadowed pits of fear. “And polite to come alone.” “A warlord without escort is a warlord without honor.”

“Yourescort dances on my doorstep, Raklion. It taunts and it teases, it flaunts and flirts with knives,” retorted Nogolor. “Isit an escort? Or do you challenge me before my people?” “Challenge?” said Raklion. “What challenge can there be between brothers, Nogolor? We are bloodbound by treaty. I am godpromised the Daughter to wife. These are sour words, warlord. Who perches on your shoulder dripping poison in your ear?” Nogolor’s fading brown eyes flicked sideways, once. “You are not polite to ask that question.” “Again you call me impolite,” said Raklion, and let a little of his displeasure show. “How have I offended, Nogolor? I am told the Daughter is blooded. Do you tell me this is untrue?” Nogolor looked shaken. Uncertain. “Who told you this?” “Nagarak high godspeaker. The god told him, in the godhouse godpool.” “Nagarak speaks truly,” said Nogolor, after a moment. The muscles round his mouth were tight. “She is blooded. She is ripe for a son.” Raklion nodded. “I am pleased to hear it. I will take her home, as was agreed between us in Et-Raklion’s godhouse, in the god’s seeing eye and witnessed by Nagarak, who you surely remember. Your giving of her was an invitation, here is my answer, I answer politely. Thank you for your girl-child, Nogolor. Bring her to me, I will take her now.” “It is not for Raklion warlord to say who takes Et-Nogolor’s Daughter,” said Grakilon high godspeaker. His godbraids were threaded with blue and green feathers, they shivered in the breeze. “She is given by the god to such as the god desires.” “Given to me,” said Raklion, as Nagarak drew scorching breath. “Before the altar in my own godhouse. What mischief is this, Nogolor? Do you seek to overturn the god’s desire?” Nogolor’s lips thinned. “I sit beneath the god’s desire, Raklion, the god sees me sit beneath it in its eye. My high godspeaker tells me the god’s want and I obey, the god is god and it speaks to me with its high godspeaker’s tongue.” So Grakilon was the one whispering poison. Raklion looked deep in the old man’s burning eyes.Beware the high godspeakers , his father told him on his deathbed.They are not like other men. They eat and sleep and breathe the god, but they are not immune to human corruption. High godspeakers can be demonstruck. They can be seduced by promises of power . Raklion had believed him. All words spoken at the portal of death were true. To lie at the portal was to freeze in hell until the sun burned to ash. Looking at Grakilon he saw a man seduced. By demons, or Bajadek, it made no difference. He had set himself against the god’s desire. He looked again at Nogolor. “To sit in the god’s eye is to heed the words of your high godspeaker. It is a sin not to listen when he speaks.” Nogolor nodded, his eyes were relieved. “So we are taught. Raklion.” “It is a greater sin to speak with your own tongue and claim your words belong to the god!” said

Nagarak. He was rigid with rage, his knuckles white upon his brown horse’s reins. “The god does not accept sacrifice on its altar or witness the giving and taking of oaths, then claim those oaths were not given and taken and no sacrifice was made! You sinning Grakilon, you false speaker for the god!” Nogolor’s warriors heard Nagarak’s angry words. Nogolor held up his fisted hand and their muttering silenced. He said, “If this is the god’s business, no warlord may interfere. Is this the god’s business, Raklion?” Raklion stared at his stallion’s striped and spiky mane. Bajadek’s name had not been mentioned. Until it was spoken, that meddling warlord had no place in this. To name him now would be to muddy waters already swirled with silt. Nogolor will not live so many more seasons. Then his son Tebek will be warlord, with troubles like crows upon a carcass. If I speak of Bajadek when Nogolor seeks to put right what is wrong I risk the treaty, I will lose the Daughter. I cannot lose her, I must sire a son. He lifted his gaze to Nogolor’s strained face. “Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is in my eye, she sits in my heart, my loins burn to possess her. Nagarak tells me the god desires that she bleed in my bed and give me a son. I am a man, I cannot know the god but through the words of my high godspeaker. I am bound by the god to heed his words.” The shadows in Nogolor’s eyes shifted. “So you are bound, and I am bound, we both are bound to obey the god and its high godspeakers. This is the god’s business, Raklion warlord. It is for the god to deliver the Daughter where it desires.” “And if that place is in my bed?” he asked. “If the oaths we swore in Et-Raklion’s godhouse are proven?” “Then you will leave here with my girl-child. She will bleed in your bed and give you a son.” Raklion nodded. “And if that is not the god’s desire, I will take my warriors and return to Et-Raklion, our treaty unbroken, our brotherhood intact.” They nudged their horses forward until they stood beside each other, knee brushing knee, then withdrew their sharp knives from their belts and held out their palms. Raklion sliced his blade through Nogolor’s flesh as Nogolor did the same to him. The pain was clean, and cruel. Blood welled and dripped, spattering the horses’ glossy hides. Their curved ears flattened, they tossed their heads. Raklion twined his fingers with Nogolor’s, mingling their blood to seal their swearing. When the blood was fully mingled they untwined their fingers and backed away. Nagarak said, “I have brought with me three hundred scorpions from Et-Raklion’s godhouse. Grakilon, you will fetch three hundred of your own. We will dig a pit for them before Et-Nogolor’s gates. Naked in the god’s eye we will swim with the scorpions and the god will choose who speaks the truth.” Grakilon hissed. “Who are you, godspeaker of Et-Raklion, to demand this or that from me? I am high godspeaker of Et-Nogolor, I do not bow down before your demands. I am the servant of Nogolor warlord, I answer to him, not you or Raklion!” Nogolor swung his horse about to look at him. “My servant, Grakilon? The god’s servant only, you are its high godspeaker. I am nothing, a puny man. You stood before me in the godhouse, Grakilon, you swore you spoke the god’s true words, that I must break my godpromise to Raklion and give my

girl-child to Bajadek warlord. That, you said, was the god’s desire. Is it so, or did you lie?” Grakilon’s eyes widened with shock. “Warlord, you can ask me that?” “I can ask you, Grakilon. If you speak the truth there is nothing to fear. The god will smite Nagarak and see you in its eye.” Nagarak’s burning gaze was fixed to Grakilon’s hollowed face. “Send for your godspeakers and your scorpions, Grakilon. This matter must be proved by the god with no more delay.” “Nogolor warlord!” Grakilon kicked his horse forward. “Why do you support this? How do you stay silent? Did I come to you and say the god’s desire was changed? You know I did not. You came to me, you were troubled in your heart, you wondered aloud before the altar: did the god truly intend Et-Nogolor’s Daughter for Raklion warlord’s blunted spear? Bajadek warlord sent you messengers, you came to me in the godhouseafter they departed.” And Grakilon told Nogolor the words he desired to hear. Grakilon obeyed the wants of his warlord, not the desires of his god. His twisted plan was Nogolor’s twisted plan, and Bajadek’s, they were tangled in lies together. Raklion kept his face still, he showed no outward thought or feeling, but in his breast the fury raged. You sinning man, Nogolor. This web of lies, this snare of deceit. The god will smite you in its eye for this. Nogolor wore jet and silver amulets in long loops from his ears. They trembled, as he trembled, Grakilon’s harsh words striking him like stones. Here was the break between them, here the ground gaped wide at their feet. Would Nogolor extend a hand to his high godspeaker, or push doomed Grakilon into the chasm? Nogolor said, “A man may stand before the altar and ask a question. There is no sin in that. You told me the god’s desire, how could I think you spoke false? Men must obey the god’s godspeakers. Raklion warlord himself has said it: we must listen and obey. If you had told me the god’s desire remained unchanged, Grakilon, Et-Nogolor’s Daughter even now would be impaled upon Raklion’s sharp spear.” Grakilon said nothing. He was thrust into the chasm, his bones were broken kindling. Raklion felt a rough pity. It would be far kinder to thrust a knife through the high godspeaker’s heart than put him into the scorpion pit. The god would see him for a liar, it would sting him to a screaming death. But it was too late for mercy, his lies must be proven before the warriors of Et-Nogolor, who believed their warlord was in the right to overthrow his godpromised word. “You and your godspeakers dig the pit, Nagarak,” said Raklion. “Side by side with the godspeakers of Et-Nogolor and their high godspeaker Grakilon. I will wait with my warriors. Nogolor warlord will wait with his. The god’s true words will be shown to all, and that will be an end to this matter.” He wheeled his horse and rode towards his waiting warriors. Nagarak rode beside him. When they halted, Nagarak said, “Warlord. Your hand.” Raklion held out his knife-cut hand, and Nagarak healed it with a godstone he took from the pouch on his belt. “This is the god’s business now,” said Nagarak, putting the godstone away. “It will smite Grakilon. It

might in some time smite Nogolor too, he was a fool to be corrupted.” “And Bajadek?” said Raklion softly, so none of his warriors could hear. “Will the god smite Bajadek also?” Nagarak smoothed his godbraids with fingers as calm as the sky. “That is warlord business.” He withdrew to gather his godspeakers around him. Raklion motioned to Hanochek, silently waiting, and they rode a small distance from the godspeakers and the warriors, that they might talk in private. “Warlord?” said Hanochek. “Is it war?” He shook his head. “Not between Et-Raklion and Et-Nogolor. Not this highsun. Bajadek tried to beguile Nogolor into taking the Daughter away from me, and giving her to him. Nogolor was tempted, or afraid to refuse, he went to Grakilon to ask if the god still intended the Daughter for me. Grakilon is no fool, he heard the question that was not asked. He told Nogolor what he wanted to hear, for reasons I do not know, that do not matter. Now Nogolor puts distance between them and says he acted on the word of his high godspeaker. He has no intention of being blamed for Grakilon’s sin.” Hano pulled a face. “You will let this stand?” “I must,” he said, shrugging. “I must have Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. There are shadows in the warlord’s eyes, I smell his fear like rank perfume. Bajadek is a vital man, his warriors are not known for mercy. Bajadek may have threatened him.” “And risked smiting by the god?” “The god does not always smite, Hano. Warlords have broken their word before now and the god has left them unsmitten. Why that must be I do not know. The god is a mystery, I do not seek to understand it. I am not a high godspeaker.” “Bajadek warlord is the cause of this trouble,” said Hano, taut with anger. “He wants a woman of warlord bloodlines and thinks there is gain for him in discord between Et-Raklion and Et-Nogolor.” “I know this,” said Raklion, watching Nagarak and Grakilon, stiffly silent, seek the exact site for the scorpion pit. “At least, he is part the cause.”And I am the rest. This is my doing, I must somehow undo it . Hano punched his thigh, he read his warlord too easily. “Raklion, you are wrong.None of this is your doing. The god sees you in its eye, it knows you are not a sinful man. You are dogged by demons jealous of your greatness. They kill your women, they kill your sons, you are the battlefield between the god and the dark ones. Would they choose a man unseen by the god in its eye for such a battle? No. To wound youis to wound the god.” Raklion stared at him, surprised. “I thought you were my warleader, Hano, not my godspeaker.” “I am your warleader and your friend,” said Hano fiercely. “You are father and brother and warlord to me. This time the demons will not win, Raklion. If I must with my own hands sacrifice one thousand bull-calves and throw my last gold coin in the barracks godbowl, Et-Nogolor’s Daughter will bear you a son. Then willI sire sons, so they may serve him as I serve you.”

Raklion was not a man of tears, but for a moment his tongue could find no words. “Brother Hano,” he said at last, “that is an oath I will hold you to. My son could not be better served if the god itself became a man and pledged its body to him.” “When this is over,” said Hano, his voice rough with feeling, “do we punish this faithless warlord of Et-Nogolor?” Raklion shook his head. “Let the god smite him if smiting is required. I do not wish our treaty broken, Hano. It is useful, it serves us well.” “Then do we ride upon Et-Bajadek with ten thousand angry warriors? Do we smite its scheming warlord for daring to trespass on the treaty between Et-Raklion and Et-Nogolor? For trying to steal Et-Nogolor’s Daughter, promised to Raklion warlord before the god?” Do we ride? Raklion frowned at his fingers, clasped upon the reins. It could rightly be said that stealing another warlord’s godpromised wife was an act of war. Seducing another warlord into betraying his godsworn treaty was an act of war also. Bajadek had done these things. In secret, yes, but now the secret was discovered. These acts of war, could he close his eyes, turn his shoulder to them?” No. I cannot. Bajadek is defeated here, he will try again when he thinks himself safe. Mijak’s browning will be his excuse. He will rouse the other warlords to envy, he will promise them a share of Et-Raklion’s spoils. If I do not smite him . . . Hano said, “A wise man might see this thwarting of his desires as a fortunate escape, he might see it as a warning from the god. Bajadek is not wise. What he wants, he takes. Raklion, if you do not smite him . . .” He smiled at Hano. “As ever we share a single thought. When the Daughter is planted with my son I will teach unwise Bajadek his lesson.” “And if he rides against us before she is planted?” “Then we will meet him in battle,” he said. “But I think he will not. Bajadek is a coward at heart, he skulks in the shadows and seeks to gain his desires with stealth. When he learns the Daughter is in my bed he will lie low, he will hide his teeth. Let him skulk, and think I have no heart for fighting. I will smite him, in my time.” Once the scorpion pit was dug, Nagarak and Grakilon each sacrificed a white lamb and drank the steaming scarlet blood. Then they stripped themselves naked and climbed into the pit. The witnessing godspeakers tipped the scorpions over them, three hundred from Et-Raklion godhouse, three hundred from the godhouse of Et-Nogolor. Larger than a man’s hand, they were bred for venom and for spite. Raklion felt his throat scald with bile. He feared little in the world, he was a warlord, but he feared the godhouse scorpions. He stared into the pit where the scorpions scuttled and swarmed and seethed around and over the seated bodies of the two high godspeakers. The men’s eyes were closed, they breathed unflinching as the scorpions crawled up their godbraids, crawled over their faces, dropped from their shoulders into their laps and sought out the softness of their unguarded genitals. The scorpions raised their barbed tails and stung the god’s high godspeakers, stung them everywhere upon their flesh. Great scarlet welts bloomed in the wake of those stings, like tended gardens the godspeakers’ naked bodies grew blossoms of venom.

Grakilon began foaming at the mouth. Watching on either side of Nogolor warlord, the godspeakers of Et-Nogolor cried out in terror and despair. Still foaming, Grakilon began to convulse, he thrashed and flailed, unseen in the god’s eye, smitten for his lies. He vomited blood, he vomited his entrails, he emptied himself from the inside out. Nagarak sat in cool still silence, he did not watch as Grakilon died. When it was finished, the scorpions stopped stinging. Nagarak opened his swollen eyes and stood. His godspeakers helped him from the pit, they fastened his pectoral over his chest, they dressed him in his loincloth and robes. “The god has seen me in its eye,” said Raklion to Nogolor. “Its desires are known beneath the sun. Bring to me Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. She will go to Et-Raklion and a son will follow upon our mating. Our treaty holds. We are still brothers.” Nogolor stared down into the pit, at the god’s scorpions, slowly dying, and Grakilon’s swollen, distorted body. He nodded, barely, as though movement pained him. “The god sees you in its eye, Raklion warlord. Its desires are known beneath the sun.” He turned to his eldest son, the warrior Tebek. “Go into my city. Ride up to my palace. Bring to this place Et-Nogolor’s Daughter.” Tebek obeyed, and Nogolor returned to his staring. Nagarak said, “Your godhouse must choose its new high godspeaker, warlord.” “Yes,” said Nogolor. He sounded lost. Dazed. He wrenched his gaze away from dead Grakilon and looked to the nearest godspeaker. “You. You will see to the choosing. But first take Grakilon from the pit, he—” “No,” said Nagarak. “Grakilon is unseen in the god’s eye, he cannot be carried up to your godhouse. He will stay in the pit, a nameless man, the dirt will cover him and—” The godspeakers of Et-Nogolor cried out in protest, some surged towards Nagarak as though they would touch him with their angry hands. Nagarak’s godspeakers moved to stop them, and four were flung into the pit by Grakilon’s defenders. The dying scorpions stung them, and they died. Nagarak cursed the sinning Et-Nogolor godspeakers with his godstone, he seared them with its blinding light. They fell to the grass and wept out their suffering at his feet. “Nogolor warlord, I will take four of your godspeakers for my own,” he said. “See this pit filled in and the grass laid upon it. Horses will ride over it, carts and wagons will roll across it. Grakilon is dead to memory. Before newsun next you must have a new high godspeaker. I will know if it is not so, the god will tell me, I sit in its eye.” Nogolor nodded, subdued. “Yes, Nagarak. This will be done, it is the god’s desire.” Nagarak climbed back into the pit and handed up the bodies of his four slain godspeakers. Those scorpions still living scuttled away from him, they did not raise their stinging tails. Raklion returned to his warriors to wait while Nagarak made his choices from the chastened group of

Et-Nogolor godspeakers, and for Tebek to bring him Et-Nogolor’s Daughter, mother of his unborn son. He waited in silence and solitude, ignoring Nogolor who looked so old and defeated. A voice beside him said, “The god sees you in its eye, warlord. That Nogolor is a stupid man. His high godspeaker was stupid also, to defy the god.” Startled, he looked down. It was the ruined beauty from the knife-dancing field. “You?” She looked at him through her spiderweb of scars. “That Zapotar, he says there is no omen for me to stop my chicken-killing and learn to dance for you with a snakeblade. I came here in the cook’s wagon, I feed your warriors salted goat and cornmush.” She nodded at the scorpion pit. “Shall I dance with the scorpions, Raklion warlord? The god sees me in its eye, it has a use for me. I must be a warrior, Raklion. I will dance with the scorpions and show you an omen.” She would do it, he could see it in her eyes. He caught her by the shoulder just in time. “No, Hekat! Return to your cook-wagon. When we are safe in Et-Raklion you will cease your chicken-killing, you will train to be a warrior in my warhost.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “That is your word?” “My word as the warlord.” Satisfied, she nodded. “I will trust it. In Et-Raklion, warlord.” Bemused, amused, he watched her run lightly to the cook-wagon where she belonged. The four godspeakers chosen, Nagarak returned to his side. He seemed unaffected by his ordeal in the pit. Raklion knew he should not be surprised, he had never seen Nagarak affected by anything. “So,” he said, as they waited for Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. “The god was with us. Nogolor is chastened.” “Bajadek must also be chastened,” said Nagarak. “He will be,” said Raklion. “In my time. War is warlord business, Nagarak. I will come to you for omens, when I am ready.” Nagarak nodded. “When you are ready, warlord. I will be waiting.” Soon after that, Raklion was given Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. She was shrouded in veils and linens, he had never seen her face. It did not matter what she looked like, only that she was the child of a warlord and fertile. Nagarak assured him she was both, it was all he needed to know of her. “My thanks to you, warlord,” he told silent Nogolor. Then he pulled the weeping Daughter behind him on his blue spotted stallion, and rode away from Et-Nogolor without looking back. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Three highsuns after the god killed Grakilon high godspeaker, rare clouds jostled the sky, then rained on the warhost returning to Et-Raklion. Not for long, but heavily, so that Vortka’s novice robes were soaked to his skin. Even after the rain stopped the clouds remained to smother the sun, the temperature dropped, the world turned grey.

Cold, chafed and miserable, he plodded with the other godspeakers of Et-Nogolor chosen by Nagarak to take the place of his godspeakers killed in the scorpion pit. Nagarak. He shivered, but not because he was wet. Grakilon had been a nothing man, feared and revered because he was high godspeaker, not because he was Grakilon. His eyes had not burned like Nagarak’s eyes. His scorpion pectoral had not seemed to breathe. He could not smite with the lifting of a finger. Why me, god? he wondered.I never asked to be a godspeaker, but you chose me so I serve. Why did Nagarak choose me? The godspeakers who died weren’t Et-Raklion novices. I cannot do the work lost because they are dead. Novices are menials, little better than slaves. Why would Nagarak choose me? I do not understand . The god did not answer. Vortka sighed, and ceased his wondering. Doubtless he would learn Nagarak’s purpose if and when the god desired it. Until then he would do his best as a novice of Et-Raklion. His best was all he could do. I hope it is good enough. He had no ties to Et-Nogolor godhouse, no novices there it hurt him to leave. Godspeaker friendships were sternly discouraged, godspeakers needed no friend but the god. Even so, godspeakers talked, they were not mute. Nagarak presided over a disciplined godhouse, that much he had learned in Et-Nogolor. Of all Mijak’s people, godspeakers moved the most freely, even more than Traders. The godhouses had a loose alliance, their first allegiance was to the god, not any warlord. Warlords died, new warlords succeeded them, in time they died and were replaced in turn. Only the god went on forever. In Et-Nogolor’s godhouse he had spoken with godspeakers born in Et-Zyden and Et-Takona and from far away Et-Jokriel. Every one of them said the same:Nagarak high godspeaker is a fearsome man . Head down, heart heavy, Vortka prayed to the god. He has seen me once. Please, I beg you. Do not let him see me twice. Eventually the hot sun appeared again and the air stank of wet wool and horseflesh steaming dry. Vortka walked among the godspeakers, Nagarak did not see him. He stopped counting the highsuns. Counting was pointless, it did not make the journey go faster. They walked and they walked, they reached Et-Raklion city at last. Once through its gates, Raklion’s warhost continued through the streets to be greeted by the people with cheering and thrown amulets. Nagarak did not ride with the warlord, he led his godspeakers up the long, winding road to Et-Raklion’s godhouse on the Pinnacle’s peak. Vortka’s feet faltered when he saw how tall and wide and grim Et-Raklion’s godhouse was, how its black stone walls seemed to drink in the sunlight and spew it out again as shadows. Compared to this place Et-Nogolor’s godhouse was small and cheerful. Scores of godspeakers bustled in and out of the scorpion-guarded main entrance, they were silent and industrious, they stopped and lowered their heads as Nagarak passed by. So did the citizens of Et-Raklion who had walked the long road here for their own reasons, some even fell to their knees as the high godspeaker approached. Nagarak led his godspeakers into the godhouse and left them standing in the enormous, echoing entrance hall. Vortka watched him climb winding stone stairs out of sight to some room high above. His fellow Et-Nogolor godspeakers were hustled away by the other Et-Raklion godspeakers. The only

novice, he was left standing alone on the uneven black stone floor, surrounded by air and the distant sounds of godhouse business: prayers, sacrifice, chiming godbells, harsh wails of the godsmitten. He had no idea what to do next. He was too afraid to ask. A few moments later he was collected by a godspeaker, taken to the novice-room below the godhouse’s ground floor and shown the straw pallet he must sleep on, one of many in the large stone chamber. It looked just like the novice-room he’d left behind in Et-Nogolor. Then he followed the godspeaker to the duty chamber on the first floor. “So. Vortka,” said Salakij the novice-master, seated at his small stone desk. He was an old man but his eyes were sharp. Vortka could tell he would brook no mischief. “What were your tasks in Et-Nogolor godhouse?” “I cleaned the godhouse, master, I tended the sacrifices. I was about to start work in the godhouse library when—” “Yes, yes,” said Salakij. “Are you called as a vessel?” Vessels were those godspeakers chosen to lie with the warlord’s warriors. The god made godspeaker vessels sterile. Warriors needed to fuck, they did not need children. Not unless the warlord desired them to breed. A warrior discovered fucking anybody but a sterile godspeaker was delivered to an unspeakable death. In the godhouse it was counted an honor to be chosen as a vessel, mainly because only the vessels were allowed to fuck. All other godspeakers lived celibate, their bodies and their devotion reserved for the god. Vortka shook his head. “No, master. In Et-Nogolor I was not—” “You are in Et-Raklion now,” snapped Salakij. “Let me not hear those words again.” “Forgive me,” said Vortka, and received the testing stone handed to him. It was dark yellow, like the one in—like the one that had tested him before. This stone did not waken either. “You are not called as a vessel,” said the novice-master, taking back the stone. “You were to start work in the library, you say? That means you read and write?” “I do, master. I also have a good grasp of numbers. Before the god chose me I—” “You did not exist before the god chose you,” said Salakij, impatient. “You are a novice and do not know that? How long has it been since your last tasking?” Vortka swallowed. “Master, it is forty-three highsuns since my last tasking.” Salakij was affronted. “Forty-three highsuns?Tcha ! You overflow with sin. From newsun next you will toil in the library, Vortka novice, under the eye of Firuk godspeaker. Between now and lowsun sacrifice you will kneel before a taskmaster, that your sins might be beaten from your flesh. Tell the taskmaster not to spare you. Tell the taskmaster I will know if you are spared.Forty-three highsuns .” Salakij leaned across his stone desk. “You will find, Vortka novice, life is very different in Et-Raklion godhouse. In Et-Raklion godhouse we serve the god.” He waved his hand in curt dismissal. “Ask a godspeaker to show you to the taskmasters. I have stomached enough of you for one day.”

Vortka wanted to say,That is unfair, it is not my fault. I traveled with the warhost, there was no tasking then . He held his tongue. A novice who questioned was a novice who walked with demons. Such a novice did not live long. As he followed a helpful godspeaker down the stairs and through the godhouse’s maze of passageways Vortka tried, and failed, to discipline his fear. Another sin he must confess to the taskmaster. I must not mind. I must endure. My life could be worse, I could still be a slave. Sadly, knowing soon he would weep beneath the taskmaster’s cane, the thought was not as comforting as he would have liked. Upon their return to Et-Raklion the warlord kept his word to Hekat. She left behind her chicken-killing days, she was given to Zapotar for training as a warrior. After she learned how to ride a horse—such stupid creatures—he assigned her to a knife-dance shell. She slept in the shell-barracks with twenty-nine other warriors who told her their names but did not make friends with her. She did not care, their friendship did not matter. Her bright new snakeblade mattered, her clean fresh linen training tunic mattered, and her stiff leather sandals she must soften with sheep-fat. Her knife-dancing mattered. That was all. When they were not training, Raklion’s warriors were free to sleep or game or fuck a vessel in the vessel-house. Hekat knife-danced. In the beginning Zapotar ridiculed her knife-dancing, but he did not laugh long. She learned fast, she learned well, soon he watched in silence as she danced thehotas with her snakeblade. His eyes were frightened. His fear was food, his fear was drink. She ate and drank him as she danced for the god. After two godmoons he summoned her to dance with him, he tested her as cruelly as he could. She pricked him four times, he pricked her once. He nodded, and said,You are a warrior . Before the knife-dancers and Hanochek warleader he heated his snakeblade and pressed it burning into her naked flank. She stared in his face, she did not scream. Now she bore her first warrior’s mark. She could ride to battle with Raklion’s warhost. After Zapotar she trained with Antokoi and his archers and slingshotters. The armorer made her a special bow, she was strong for her size but a full bow was beyond her. The god sat in her eye and in her fingers, she struck her targets over and over with arrows and with stones, she killed as many sheep and goats for their dinner as any of the seasoned warriors. After one godmoon Antokoi told her,You are a warrior . He shot her with an arrow, then. A godspeaker healer dug it from her thigh and sealed the bloody hole in her leg. The arrow’s scar was her second mark, it was tattooed with crimson ink to make it different from the arrow scars she would later earn in battle. The armorer pierced the arrowhead for her, then passed a heated wire through her ear. She dangled the arrowhead like an amulet, its weight made her smile when she turned her head. She was given to the chariots next, and her training continued with Bodrik Chariot-leader. He had seen her knife-dance and kill with slingshot and bow, he knew better than to sneer because she was young and ugly. She was too light to manage a chariot and its mad warhorses, she stood with the driver and loosed her arrows and her shot-stones, first at standing targets and later at godforsaken criminals let loose in the chariot field. No matter how fast the horses galloped, how desperately the criminals twisted and turned, she almost always hit her target.

She did not grieve for the ones she killed, they were sinners and deserved to die. Bodrik said, one godmoon later,You are a warrior . She was tied to a chariot wheel and beaten with a chariot-whip, eight cuts to mimic the spokes of a wheel. The whip scars were her third warrior’s mark. She was not yet ready to learn the spear with Dokoy so she returned to Zapotar and her shell of knife-dancers. Through her other warrior-skill training she never once forgot herhotas , every day she had practiced them on the knife-dance field no matter how tired she was. Knife-dancing was her gift to the god and to Raklion, its chosen warlord. Of all her war skills, it was her best. She danced with her shell-mates and wished the warlord could see her. But Raklion stayed within his palace, plowing the Daughter, planting a son. Hanochek warleader trained with the warhost, he told them each newsun:You are Mijak’s greatest warriors, you make me proud . Tcha. What did she care for Hanochek’s praise? He had no power, he answered to the warlord. She wanted Raklion to see her, Raklion to smile and nod and say,You are a warrior . How long must it take him to plant his son? How long before they rode to smite that Bajadek, insolent warlord, sinning man? She did not know. She would have to wait. And dance while she waited, and dream of the god. Alone in the center of the knife-dancers’ field, as lowsun’s last light drained below the edge of the horizon, Hekat danced the steps of thesandcat striking . It was one of her favoritehotas , she felt like a cat as she flowed from pose to pose, leaping, twisting, flipping through the air to land lightly on her unshod feet. She could leap higher than any other knife-dancer in Raklion’s warhost, she could somersault over Zapotar’s head. I leap for the god, I leap in its eye. Someone called her. “Hekat? Hekat! Is that you?” She twisted in mid-air to see who dared call her name while she danced for the god. After a moment’s hard staring, she knew who it was. “Vortka?” He stood three paces distant, his beautiful face alive with surprise. He was tall now, he had grown many handspans since last she saw him in Et-Nogolor, in the slave pen. “Hekat! Itis you,” he said. He was smiling. “How can that be? I did not think a sla—” In a single striking leap the tip of her snakeblade pricked his throat. “You cannot be here! Only a warrior may tread this ground!” “I am a godspeaker,” he said, and touched the scorpion shell bound to his brow. “I tread where the god sends me.” It was a very small scorpion shell. Leaving her blade against his throat she said, “You are anovice godspeaker.” He was still smiling, he did not seem to notice her knife. “True. But a godspeaker, even so.”

“You were taken by the godspeaker in Et-Nogolor,” she said, baffled. “How are you here?” “By the god’s desire. And you? You are awarrior ?” He was beautiful, but she should kill him. He knew her from her dead life, he knew her with Abajai and Yagji. She pressed her snakeblade closer and felt it slide beneath his skin. He gasped. No smiling now. “What are you doing?” “I am not a slave,” she hissed. “I am Hekat, chosen by the god. I dance in the god’s eye for Raklion warlord. Why do you come here? Are you demon-sent, to cause me trouble?” His shining eyes were wide but not frightened. He should be frightened, she had killed many men. “Demon-sent?” he said. “No! I came down from the godhouse library with tablets for Hanochek warleader. I thought to walk my slow way back, I spend my days within four walls, it is good to see the open sky, feel cool fresh air against my face. I saw you knife-dancing, I thought you were beautiful. And then, as I watched, I thought I knew you.” Despite the knife at his throat, the thread of blood trickling down his chest, he traced one daring fingertip across her scarred cheek. “What happened, Hekat? Your face was a glory to the god.” “The god took my face. It does not matter.” “The god would never take your glory,” he protested. “Was it Trader Abajai? Did he—” “That name isdead to me!” she said, and pressed his throat harder with her knife. “My life outside these barracks is dead to me! Remember that if you wish to live.” Still his eyes were unafraid. “You look and sound so different, Hekat,” he said, his voice gentle. “Won’t you tell me how you came here?” “It is my business. Mine, and the god’s.” “I will keep your words secret. The god smite me if that is not so.” She could smell no stink of treachery on him. The god did not smite him. His word was his word. Slowly she lowered her blade from his throat. “Why do you care?” He smiled again. “You gave me food when I was hungry.” From her own bowl, after his was stolen. She remembered. “Tcha!” she said, and looked away. “Stale dry bread, I did not want it.” “I watched you after the Traders bought me in Todorok village,” he said. “Every day as I walked in my chains, I watched you riding Abajai’s white camel. You thought you were not one of us, you wore no chains, you ate and slept and talked with the Traders. I knew different. I was sorry for you.” Sorry? Stung, she raised a fist to him. “Hekat needs no godspeaker pity!” He covered her fist with his fingers, and held her. “Not now. But I was sorry then, Hekat. If the god took you from them and put you in this place and if you are happy here, then I am happy for you.”

She should pull free of his fingers, she should strike him for touching her. She said, “You are truly a godspeaker? The godspeaker in Et-Nogolor did not lie?” “Godspeakers cannot lie, Hekat.” “Tcha,” she said, and did pull free. “You are stupid, Vortka. Grakilon lied. He said the god wanted the Daughter for Bajadek but that was not true. He was high godspeaker and he told lies.” “Grakilon was a man, corrupted by demons. He turned his shoulder to the god, that is not the same thing.” His beautiful face was calm, his voice was calm, the god was in him, she could feel it. “So you are a godspeaker.” He nodded. “I will be. One day. When I’m done with training and have suffered the testing.” Across the shadowed knife-dance field floated sounds of laughter, of music, as Raklion’s warriors amused themselves around their nightly bonfires. The flickering light warmed the gathering darkness. Sometimes she sat with the knife-dancers before the flames and listened to the laughter, the stories, the songs that told of battles past. She was a warrior, and that was how warriors sometimes spent their nights. When she was not dancing or practicing her reading and writing, that was how she spent her nights. “What is the testing?” “A godspeaker secret.” She bared her teeth at him. “Now I see you, Vortka novice. You knowmy secret but keepyours in your heart. You are a man, like men you cheat, you lie, you would put chains on me if I was stupid, if I let you fool me.” She turned her shoulder to him and walked away. He followed. “Hekat! Wait!” Aieee, she should kill him, if she did not slit his throat he would name her a runaway slave, see her nailed to a godpost with her entrails at her feet. Her fingers on the snakeblade tightened, her drumming heart drummed hard and loud, she tensed her body to leap upon him, sandcat striking. She spun on one foot, snakeblade rising . . . Vortka was on the ground before her, on his knees before her, his throat was bare, like a lamb for sacrifice it was soft and waiting. She pulled back her blade and stumbled to stillness. “The god sees you, Hekat, it sees you in its eye,” he said, without fear. “I see you. Your secret is my secret, it sits in my heart. The testing is for novice godspeakers, they go alone into a desolate place. The god stings them with tribulations, it beats them low, and if they are true they lift themselves into its eye.” “And if they are false? What does the god do if they are false?” “It breathes upon them and they die.”

She pressed her blade-tip into the softness under his jaw. “If you are false, Vortka, I will breathe on you and you will die.” His fingers closed around her wrist. He laid the snakeblade against his lips and kissed it. “I know.” She dropped to the dirt before him. “What else do you know, Vortka?” Now his warm palm cupped her cheek. “I am a novice, I know hardly anything. Except I think we are meant to be friends. And I think you have a purpose.” His touch burned her, gentle against her scars. “What purpose? Does the god tell you?” He shook his head. “No. Does it tell you?” She did not want to answer that, but if she said nothing he would guess anyway. “No,” she told him, grudging. “Not yet. Vortka, why are youhere ?” He knelt in silence, his gaze turned inwards. “To find you, Hekat,” he said at last, looking outwards. “We know each other for a reason. I think I am meant to help you in your purpose for the god, whatever it is.” “Tcha!” She gathered her muscles and sprang to her feet. Her scars were cold without his hand upon them. She melted her body into ahota , flowing like water,lizard waiting on a rock . “I am Hekat, warrior of Et-Raklion. I read, I write, I dance with my snakeblade. Do I need help from a godspeaker novice?” “I think the god thinks you do,” said Vortka, and stood. “Would you have me defy it, earn its smiting wrath? What have I done to you that you would do that to me?” Aieee, he was a twisty one. “Nothing,” she said, and kept on dancing. “Let the god show me I need you, and perhaps I will not send you away. Let it show me—” She missed her timing in a complicated cartwheel, her foot slipped, she fell hard to the ground. All the hot airwhooshed out of her lungs. Shocked, offended, she lay gasping on her back and watched Vortka bend low to help her onto her feet. “Was that the god?” he said, his dark eyes laughing. “I think it was. I think you do need me, Hekat, though you wish you did not.” She shook his hand free of her and tossed her head. “Tcha. I think you think too much, Vortka novice. Go away, your silly face distracts me.” He retreated three paces, he did not leave. Ignoring him, she began dancing again. After watching for a while, he did go away. She let him go, she did not stop him. He was a novice, he was no-one. She was knife-dancing with the god. She saw him again six highsuns later. Every tenth highsun Raklion’s warriors were given a day of freedom from training. Hekat spent that time mending torn training tunics and reading. With their copper coin warrior’s portion her shell-mates bought sweetmeats and godbones, amulets and fancy leatherwork from the city pedlars selling their wares in the

barracks. She did not care for those things. She cared for stories, and bought them when she could. This free-day, she sat alone in the sunshine on the far side of the empty knife-dance field, mending a tunic, duty before pleasure, when a shadow fell across her face. She looked up, annoyed. It was Vortka again. “Tcha! I am stitching, are you blind not to see that?” He smiled, so beautiful, and sat beside her. “I see you stitching. You can stitch and talk, I think.” Mending tunics was a tedious business, she longed for a slave. “Of course I can. But do I want to? I do not think so.” He pulled his knees against his chest. “I have kept your secret, Hekat knife-dancer. Can you not give me a little of your time?” He had kept her secret, did that mean he owned her? “Why?” “I am freed from duties in the godhouse until highsun. I thought to sit a while with a friend.” “Friend?” She busied herself with the needle so he would not see her face. “What isfriend ? It is a word. What is a word? A puff of air, it weighs nothing, it means less.” “Not to me, Hekat,” said Vortka, sighing. “Before Abajai bought me I had many friends in my village. I have none in the godhouse, friends distract from the god. I am not supposed to miss them but I do. I suppose you do not need another friend, you are a warrior now. You have your shell-mates.” Her hand jerked, the needle stabbed. Bright red blood-drops stained her mended tunic. “You’ve hurt your finger,” said Vortka. “I have my godstone. Shall I heal it for you?” “There is nothing wrong with my finger,” she snapped, and sucked the blood-drop from its tip. Vortka laughed. “You are a funny one. Hekat. You make me smile.” She did not make her shell-mates smile, or Hanochek warleader when he watched her dance. She was one of them, but also apart. She made them uneasy, they knew she was different. I am Hekat, godtouched and precious. What do I care for the friendship of men? “Why are you here, Vortka? If you are found being friendly won’t you be punished? Godspeakers are strict, even warriors know that much.” Vortka shrugged. “I am a novice, I sin daily. I am punished daily whether I sit with you or not.” Curious, she looked at him. “How do they punish you?” “That is godspeaker business, I am forbidden to say.” Then he sighed. “There are taskmasters. Pain in the flesh is our contrition.” She wasn’t certain what that meant, but his eyes were sad. She felt a stir of pity. “It does not please you,

to serve the god?” “Serving the god is my greatest joy!” he said, stung to anger. But it swiftly faded and he was sad again. “It is the whipping I could live without.” “Then do not sin and they will not whip you.” “Tcha!” he said, pulling a face. “I have come to believe that to breathe is to sin. At least that’s what Salakij novice-master believes.” He sighed again. “There was not so much whipping in Et-Nogolor.” “You cannot go back there?” “Not unless Nagarak sends me. He won’t. The god desires me here, I am here for you.” Did that mean it washer fault the taskmasters whipped him? She threw down the tunic and leapt to her feet. “I did not ask the god for you, Vortka! You could go back to Et-Nogolor,I would not care!” Now he smiled, it melted his sorrow. “I would. Aieee, it is not so bad, Hekat. Pay no attention. This is what friends do, they complain to each other, they pout and pull faces. I will not be a novice forever. I will survive this. I serve the god.” Did he mean that? She stared at him sitting on the ground. She thought he meant it, but before she could ask him a godbell’s tolling broke the warm silence. On the other side of the knife-dance field she saw warriors stirring, heard excited voices raised in clamor. Vortka stood. “There is the other reason I came to find you,” he said, as the godbell continued to toll. “I heard the news as I left the godhouse. Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is planted with a son and Nagarak high godspeaker has read omens of war. That means the warhost will ride upon Bajadek, doesn’t it? I thought it was something you would want to know.” Yes, it was something. She gave him a wide smile, snatched up her half-mended tunic and ran across the knife-dance field to rejoin her shell-mates as though ravenous dogs snapped at her heels. CHAPTER FOURTEEN On the eve of battle a warlord bathed his body in blood. Naked and alone, for this was a private ritual, Raklion trod the stone steps into the godhouse godpool, to sink his face in scarlet and show the god he was ready for war. The air was heavy with the smell of death. The blood was warm, it covered his feet, his ankles, his calves. It rose up his thighs, it lapped at his genitals like a woman’s tongue, it sighed across his belly and drowned his scarred chest. Rank warm blood flowed over his lips, his eyes, it stopped his breathing. He swam in blood. Beneath the red surface he heard his heart pound, the lack of air in his lungs was a fist squeezing tight. He opened his eyes. I am here, god. I bathe in the sacred sacrificed blood. My son is planted, I have seen your omens. Nagarak says I am bound to war. I will smite Bajadek, I will lay him low. Yet I fear that will bring no end to trouble. I fear my trouble is only beginning. Et-Raklion stays fat as the rest of Mijak grows thin. I know my brother warlords, god, it will turn them against me. They will try to destroy me. How can I stop them? What must I do?

He waited and waited but the god did not answer. Disappointed, disturbed, pricked with his own answer, one too terrible to contemplate, he walked from the godpool to the cleansing room to be renewed in milk and water. “Warlord, you are burdened with unquiet thoughts,” said Nagarak softly, his strict hands bathing him, washing him clean. “Unburden yourself, my purpose is to listen.” Nagarak was high godspeaker, he always knew. “Yes, I am burdened,” Raklion admitted. How could he not be? He was the warlord, every life in Et-Raklion lived in his hand. But he could not tell Nagarak what churned in his mind. Nagarak would smite him to his knees if he did that. Should the browning of Mijak continue the nation will be torn to pieces, seven warlords at each other’s throats, ripping and shredding till nothing remains. But if Mijak had a single warlord . . . Aieee, what a sinning thought that was! A single warlord was against the god’s law, written in blood at the dawn of their age. He suffocated temptation in his heart and asked Nagarak a question that would not wake his wrath. “I am tasked to chastise Bajadek. Does the god desire his death?” Nagarak anointed him with fragrant snake oil, his eyes, his lips, his heart, his hips. “The god desires Bajadek to acknowledge his sinning. It desires that he stay in his city and not stir trouble between the warlords.” Raklion looked at his hands. Blunt, square, and trained to kill. “And if he does not?” “It is a mistake to defy the god.” Nagarak put aside the glass bottle of oil, he unstopped a clay jar of sacred ointment. Raklion sucked air through his clenched teeth, the ointment stung, it burned his skin. “Nagarak, I ride to war. Will I ride home again? Will I survive?” Astonished, Nagarak took a step backwards. “What is this, warlord? Where do these fears spring from? The god sends you to war, to chastise sinning Bajadek. You go with its omen, anointed with its desire. Why do you think you will die in this battle?” Because I am filled with sinful thoughts, I am no better than Bajadek warlord. I think of Raklion, warlord of Mijak. “I am a man, Nagarak,” he said, in anguish. “Like Bajadek warlord, I have sinned. If I were perfect I would have a son.” “Raklion, you have a son, he ripens in the Daughter’s belly. You will live to see him grow to be a man.” Nagarak’s words loosened some tight knot within him. “I have lost so many sons,” he whispered. “I am afraid to lose another.” Nagarak touched him, over his heart. “You are the warlord, the god cloaks you in strength. Go now, Raklion. Kneel your time before your palace godpost and leave your offerings in its bowl. Then lead your warhost to the lands of Et-Bajadek and show the world how the god is obeyed.”

Raklion led six thousand warriors to the lands of Bajadek warlord. They did not travel by the Traders Road, the traditional path from Et-Raklion to Et-Bajadek. That was the peaceful way of entering the lands of Bajadek warlord. Raklion’s warhost did not ride in peace. He led his warriors the quiet way, the purposeful way, through Et-Raklion’s pastures and crops, past its godfarms and villages whose inhabitants waved and cheered and exhorted the god to see him in its eye. He waved back and thanked them for their godspeed. His people loved him, and he loved his people. They were nearing the end of Mijak’s long hot season, they traveled for all the time there was light, as the burning sun climbed the vaulting sky and slid down again to the distant horizon. The cultivated country gave way to wilder terrain, to marshes crowded with frog and heron and watersnake, and from there to a harsh dry landscape cluttered with rocks and pocked with caves and crevices. Strange echoes woke, unsettling the horses. The chariots’ wheels boomed hollow on the bare ground. With steady traveling they left that strange place and came to Et-Raklion’s open grasslands. The warriors sang their songs of war, Hanochek sang, and Raklion sang too, though his voice was cracked and lost the tune more often than found it. Twenty-seven highsuns after leaving his city, Raklion and his warhost reached the border with Et-Bajadek. There was no godpost, just a boulder-sized chunk of pale grey crystal, a borderstone set by Bajadek’s high godspeaker so he would know who entered the warlord’s lands. If a traveler’s intentions were not declared to the borderstone the god would smite him. He would wither and die. Declarations of war were the warlord’s business. Godspeakers rode with Raklion’s warhost, but this was not a task for them. They gave him a black lamb and a sacred godhouse blade and returned to their wagon. With the blade Raklion sacrificed the lamb and bathed the borderstone in its blood. The lamb’s limp body melted as the last drop left it, vanished into sulphur smoke. The borderstone drank the sacred blood, turned blood red and glowed under the sun. Raklion took a deep breath and pressed his hand into it. As warlord he must break the crystal, force his will upon the lands of Et-Bajadek. Resistance poured against him like a waterfall of air. Bajadek’s borderstone was set against him, there was no treaty, he was not welcome here. His bones cried out against the power, he shouted at the blazing pain. He heard his warhost shouting with him. Hanochek shouted loudest of all. When Bajadek’s borderstone was emptied of power Raklion turned to his warhost and raised the godhouse blade above his head. “Behold Bajadek’s borderstone, broken by my hand and the god’s desire! Now our warhost rides into Et-Bajadek, to sweep like fire through the unrepentant grass!” As his warriors hailed him, as they drummed their knife-hilts and sword-hilts and spears to show him the fury of their love, he returned to Hanochek who was holding his stallion. “We must ride hard, Hano,” he said, his voice low. “Knowing we ride on him Bajadek will lead his warhost to meet us. He is a foolish, proud man, he is deaf to the god.” “His deafness will be his undoing, warlord,” said Hano, handing him the reins. “The god itself sends us to Et-Bajadek. We ride at its will, we smite at its desiring.”

Raklion wiped the godhouse blade on the dry grass, returned it to a waiting godspeaker, then swung himself into his saddle. Heavy with purpose, he led his warhost into Et-Bajadek. They traveled two highsuns and saw no sign of Bajadek warlord. A finger before lowsun on the third day past the borderstone they made camp beside a network of sluggish waterholes. As soon as they were halted, Raklion sent his four best Eyes running ahead to locate Bajadek’s warhost. It must be close now, the open country was nearing its end. The other warriors washed the sweat from their skins, their cheerful laughter easing his heart. Body slaves fetched water for him, he bathed in cold and solitary splendor. After sacrifice was made, and rations were eaten, his warhost settled to watchful rest and Raklion walked among them. This was the time he loved the best. He did not love the bloody battles, the pain and the loss and the waste of death. I am a warlord, bred from a long line of fearsome warlords. Death and knives are in my blood, yet I do not love them. He wondered sometimes if it was this failing which summoned to him so much disappointment. A weakness in his seed that weakened his sons in their mothers’ wombs, weakened them in the world beyond that if they were born at all they died so young and sickly. With a grunt he strangled that line of thought. Whatever his failings in the past, they were in the past. The Daughter ripened with his son, the god was appeased, it was pleased, it saw him in its eye. Soon now he would ride into battle, the god would ride with him, this bloodshed was righteous and he would prevail. His son would cut teeth on tales of this victory over proud and godless Bajadek. The sounds and smells of his war camp swirled around him. Murmured voices, random shouts and laughter, the squeals of warhorses squabbling, sharp acid urine from man and beast, the stinging sulphur smoke of sacrifice that would drift about them all night long, a pungency of grease as chariot wheels were oiled by dour loving charioteers and horsemen cleaned their charm-heavy bridles. Six thousand numbered his warriors only, it did not count the godspeakers and slaves who traveled with the warhost. All his people, sworn to live and die for him. They were why he walked the camp site, why he delayed the respite of sleep. Why should they die for him if he did not walk among them, to show them his confidence and call them by name? One by one he visited their separate encampments, for within their barracks and without, his warriors lived like families with each skill-leader as father or mother. It fostered bonds of blood between them and a healthy rivalry between the disciplines. Warmed by their welcomes he spoke with his archers, his slingshotters, his spear-carriers, his charioteers and his knife-dancers. Every warrior promised him their life; he promised them victory from the god. As he left the knife-dancers’ camp, eager for bed, he saw at its edge a warrior, dancing. He knew who it was without seeing a face or asking for a name.Hekat . She danced beneath the night’s black ceiling, the godmoon’s light glittering the length of her blade. All knife-dancers were beautiful, it was the nature of their gift, but Hekat was glorious. In the starshine her scars were hidden, she was slender bones and uncoiling muscle, she was small breasts and long limbs and a promise of death in a breath, in a heartbeat. Aieee, god, she made him burn. “Warlord,” she said, her blue gaze sliding sideways as she flowed through herhotas like water over rocks.

“Hekat,” he replied. “Why are you dancing?” Her teeth gleamed, she was smiling. He had never seen her smile. He was enchanted. “Why does the sun rise, warlord?” she said. “Why do birds fly and dogs stand on three legs to pish? It is the nature of things.” “You should be in your camp and sleeping. There will be dancing enough come the newsun. Blood and screaming and dying men’s entrails spread on the ground, a banquet for the crows.” He knew she was young, and yet she seemed ancient. “That is for the newsun,” she told him, serene. Her once-short godbraids were longer, heavy with beads they caressed her shoulders. “Now is the time I dance for the god.” Silence cloaked them as she danced with her snakeblade, folding the darkness around its sharp edge. The desire to join her stabbed his heart but he could not dance with her, he was the warlord. He danced with all his knife-dancers or none of them, the night before war. “Where are your friends, Hekat?” he whispered. “The other knife-dancers sit quietly together, they talk, they remember, they dream of the newsun after battle. Why do you not dream with them?” For the longest time she did not answer. She wore a scorpion round her slender neck, truly she knife-danced with the god. “Warlord,” she said, as her lasthota sighed to stillness. “I have the god. I need no friends. I am Hekat, I dance alone.” So cold, so proud. He could warm her, he could make her beg. “I am Raklion. I dance alone also. Perhaps one day we could dance alone together.” Her head tipped to one side. “Alone. You are the warlord, at your back ride six thousand warriors.” He ached, he was throbbing. “And yet, Hekat knife-dancer, I am alone.” “Then you are in the darkness talking to yourself, and that is not a good thing, warlord,” said Hanochek’s voice, approaching. Raklion turned. Hanochek’s shadow resolved, became flesh. “You come hunting me, warleader? Are you Bajadek or his Eyes now, creeping silently in the night?” Hanochek’s hand clasped him briefly. “Your body slaves grew anxious when you did not return. They wouldn’t settle unless I came to find you.” “And here I am found,” said Raklion. “And in no danger. I was talking to—” He turned, but the girl was gone, slipped away in the dark. “To Hekat?” said Hano, and sighed. “Raklion, she is a strange one. All the leaders tell me of her, they shake their heads. Even Zapotar, though he says she is the finest knife-dancer he ever trained. There is something inhuman about her, they say. I have watched her. I think they are right.” “She wears a scorpion round her neck,” said Raklion. “When I saw it I thought of Nagarak’s pectoral.

Its shadow covered her, Hanochek. Like an omen. I think she is godtouched. So young, so brilliant. How can she otherwise be explained?” Hano snorted. “You should find out where she comes from, Raklion. She tells a story, yes, but who is there to say that story’s true? She could be anyone. She could be from anywhere.” “She is from the god, Hano,” he said, and smiled at his warleader’s loyal suspicion. “The rest of her story is unimportant.” “So you say,” said Hano. Even in moonlight his disgruntled expression was clear to read. “You watch her closely, Raklion. I see her in your eye. You should beware. Not only the godtouched are young and brilliant.” “You think herdemonstruck ?” Hano shrugged. “I think her strange. If she survives Bajadek’s smiting I think Nagarak should bleed this Hekat and sniff her blood for omens. If she is demonstruck he will smell her out.” The thought of Hekat’s death stopped his breathing. “She will survive, Hano,” he said roughly. “I tell you she is godtouched and sent to me by the god.” “For what purpose, Raklion? She is an urchin, a ragged child. She is pretty with a snakeblade, that I won’t deny. But—” Raklion raised his hand. “Peace, Hano. It is Bajadek I wish to battle, not my warleader. I say Hekat is no danger. I am the warlord, my word is my word.” Defeated, Hano dipped his head. “Warlord.” There could be no coolness between them, not before a day of bloodshed. Raklion slung an arm round Hano’s shoulders and they walked together to his private camp. “I need your counsel, Hano. What thoughts do you have on matters of tactics?” Seated cross-legged before his camp fire they talked of strikes and counter-strikes against Bajadek’s warhost, how best they could use the open plain to their advantage. As they talked, two of the Eyes returned sweat-slicked and triumphant. Bajadek’s warhost was found, some four thousand strong and camped five fingers’ distance. Three of Bajadek’s Eyes were discovered sneaking up to Raklion’s warhost. They were dead now, staring blindly at the sky. Raklion praised his Eyes and released them to leisure. “We will ride for Bajadek after newsun sacrifice,” he told Hanochek. “Leave me now. I would sit in silence with the god.” Hanochek nodded and withdrew. Raklion pulled out his snakeblade, he cut his forearm and gave the god his blood. By lowsun tomorrow Bajadek will be smitten, your wrath shall lay him on the ground. I am your knife, god. I am your arrow and your spear. Use me. Let the warlords of Mijak know that Raklion warlord sits in your eye. Newsun came swiftly, staining the sky scarlet. With sober anticipation the warriors gathered to witness

sacrifice. The white lamb died with grace, in silence. Wyngra godspeaker, appointed to the warhost by Nagarak himself, captured its blood in a golden chalice and gave it to Raklion to drink. Then he scooped out the lamb’s eyes and burned them to ash with a purple godstone. The ash he sifted through his fingers, drifted it onto the silver omen-plate. Naked and squatting, amulets the size of fists dangling from thongs around his neck, his wrists, his waist, he lowered his eyelids and read the ashes’ drifted patterns. “Here is the sign of the scorpion,” said Wyngra, rasping. His gnarled fingers traced the omens in the air. “Here is its raised tail, here are its pincers. Here lie the bodies of the vanquished, woe to the misguided and the tricked. Ride triumphant to battle, Raklion warlord. The god sees you in its eye, it hungers for the blood of the disobedient and the greedy.” Raklion raised his snakeblade high, it flashed in the first light, red as blood. His belly churned with fresh hot lamb’s blood. Blood stained his lips and smeared the snake on his leather breastplate. “The omens favor us! We ride for the god!” “We ride for the god!” his warriors shouted. “We ride for Raklion, warlord of Et-Raklion, city of cities in the god’s land of Mijak!” As Wyngra wrapped the lamb’s body for later eating, Raklion turned to Hanochek. “Gather the skill-leaders. I will speak to them before we ride.” They stood before him grim and glorious, the skill-leaders of his warhost: Zapotar, Antokoi, Bodrik and Dokoy. He praised them for their training and their leadership, he thanked them for their service and the blood they would spill. He promised to honor their bodies if they should fall. “The god sees you,” he told them, fist pressed against his heart. “The god sees you in its eye, and I see you also.” They departed to rally their warriors, and in private he took his leave of Hanochek. They would fight together in the battle but that was no time for thanks or farewell. Hano embraced him. “You are my warlord, you are my brother and my friend,” he whispered. “If I fall today, believe I fall willingly for you and the god.” “No warlord was served as I am served by you, Hano,” he replied, and held him so hard he heard ribs creak. His voice was soft, and almost lost in the rabbling noise of the warhost gathering itself for war. Tears pricked his eyes, he let them fall. “The god see you in its eye, my friend, my brother. I will see you when the war is won.” After that the talking was over. Raklion mounted his stallion, he rode it to the head of his warhost and led them to war. The warhosts of Et-Raklion and Et-Bajadek faced each other on the Plain of Drokar. Raklion rode out alone, to meet with Bajadek in solitary council halfway between their gathered warriors. It was an honored custom, no danger attached to such a meeting. A warlord who killed in solitary council was demonstruck and sent to hell, his sons put to death by his own people, his bloodline washed from history in blood. “Kneel to me, Bajadek warlord,” said Raklion curtly. “Confess your wickedness and accept the god’s smiting of your flesh alone. Your obedient warriors should not die for their warlord’s sin.”

Bajadek sneered. He had only one eye, the other lost in a skirmish with Takona warlord when he inherited his father’s lands. He was squat and brutal, he wielded his two unloved sons like a double-bladed knife, to cut and wound and maim the warlord who sired no living sons to follow him. “What sin? What wickedness? I am a warlord, what I want, I take. That is the way of things, do you deny it?” “Not even a warlord can take what the god has given to another. Nogolor warlord received my mercy. You can receive it also, for your warriors’ sakes.” “Nogolor warlord is old,” replied Bajadek, scornful. “Old men are like wheat, they bend in the wind. I am stone, I am timber, my bones grow in the ground. You cannot bend me, Raklion warlord. I will kill you before highsun and take your lands and your people. Your water seed has sired no offspring, your spear is blunt. Your day is done.” Raklion kept his face cold. In Et-Raklion his son was ripening. “The god turned away from Grakilon high godspeaker, the scorpions killed him for defying its desire. Nogolor warlord was spared, he gave to me his godpromised Daughter. Even now my son grows in her belly, the god sees me, Bajadek. I live in its eye. Repent, warlord. We will make a treaty. I would not spill your blood for the pleasure of watching you bleed.” “Then you are a fool, Raklion,” Bajadek whispered. “Bleeding you is a pleasure long longed for. Look not for mercy from Bajadek warlord. It is a word he never was taught.” Raklion sat for a moment, watching Bajadek gallop back to his warhost. If the warlord had bowed his head, had kneeled on the ground, had admitted his mischief, he would have asked the god to let battle end before it began. Clearly, god, that is not your desire. Blood you desire, and blood you shall have. CHAPTER FIFTEEN Bajadek sent out his chariots first, a foolish move of arrogant bravado. He hoped to terrify his enemy’s warhost, to break their ranks and send them fleeing. His hope was wasted. Not even Bajadek’s thundering chariots could break the will of Raklion’s warhost. Raklion countered with mounted archers and slingshotters on foot, and with running spearmen who could strike a charioteer and his horses before they reached their enemy’s front line. Not all were struck down, some of Bajadek’s chariots breached his defenses. He heard his warriors and their horses screaming, he heard the crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh, smelled the first rank flooding of their blood. He closed his ears and hardened his heart, he was fighting for the god and his own smirched honor. They died for him willingly, they died for the god. I will honor your bodies, I will burn them to ash, I will sing your names in the godhouse of Et-Raklion. His own chariots, Raklion held back at each flank. Hanochek led them, he would know the right time to set them free and drive Bajadek’s warriors into disarray and death. With Bajadek’s charioteers destroyed or driven off, the battle began in savage earnest. Raklion led his

warriors forward at a gallop, leaping Bajadek’s smashed chariots and the bodies of the slain. With a short spear in one hand and his snakeblade in the other he slashed, he stabbed, he punched holes in throats and bellies, severed heads and arms and sliced bodies wide open to spill their stinking entrails on the ground. The Plain of Drokar churned to bloody mud, his eyes were full of blood, his ears were full of screaming, the sky was red, the earth was red, his arms were red up to his shoulders. A spear thrust took his stallion through its throat, it plunged to the sloppy ground and sent him flying. He struck, he rolled, and found his feet. The dead and dying clogged the plain beneath him, he had no choice but to tread upon them as he fought for his life. A glancing knife slash opened his cheek, he felt the blow but not its pain. An arrow struck him in the thigh; he snapped it off and kept on fighting. He knew the faces of the warriors beside him, but he couldn’t remember their names. They lived, they died, they fell or they fought on. Names no longer mattered. All that mattered was victory for Et-Raklion. Thrust—slash—stab—scream—over and over and over again. Breath seared and tearing, lungs in flames, muscles over-reached and burning, blood from his breached body slicking flesh, pumping hot. Kill. Kill. Kill. He caught a glimpse of Bajadek through the madness, painted in blood and wielding a broad axe. The warlord looked demonstruck, he was weeping, laughing. Four arrows jutted from his leather breastplate and two from his arm; if he felt them his pain did not show. Raklion shouted as a Bajadek warrior rose before him. Half her face was cut away, peeled from the skull like the skin of a peach. As he lifted his spear to skewer her like goat-meat her head was shattered by an Et-Raklion slingshotter’s stone. He leapt her body and stabbed a warrior striking for Dokoy Spear-leader’s back. “Praise you, warlord!” Dokoy wheezed. “Praise you, Dokoy,” he wheezed in reply, and then they were separated, forced apart by a fresh wave of Et-Bajadek warriors, fighting to their gruesome deaths. A ragged cry went up behind him. “The chariots! The chariots come! God see the warleader! God see him in its eye!” With a roar like a landslide Hanochek and his chariots galloped into the battle. Raklion saw Hano flashing by, godbraids flying in the wind of his passing, his face alight with the promise of death. Does that mean we are winning? Does that mean we have won? He did not know, he could not tell, he could see no further than the next enemy warrior, his next savage kill. Sobbing for air he raised his stone-heavy arm and sliced through a bared throat, then sundered a heart in an unprotected breast. Blood spurted, he tasted iron on his lips, heard a shrill scream, a grunt of pain. Wet thuds as two bodies hit the ground. More screaming in front of him. Hanochek and his glorious chariots smiting Bajadek’s warriors, herding them and crushing them and slaughtering them like sheep. A second glimpse of Bajadek showed the warlord howling, showed him cleaving bodies with sword and axe. Blood sprayed, arms flung high in surrender, in defeat, godsparks fleeing to the sunbright sky.

Raklion sucked air into his starving lungs, forced his mind to ignore his body’s agony, and willed himself through the press of flailing slashing dying bodies towards Bajadek, his enemy, god’s enemy, who was killing his precious warriors. A desperate Et-Bajadek warrior’s knife caught him across the back; without looking he spun, swung, and was pressing forward again before her body hit the tumbled corpses around them. On the edges of his scarlet vision he could still see Hano’s chariots, chivvying and killing Et-Raklion’s enemies. He laughed aloud, a breathless gasp, and kept on pushing. A second knife-thrust opened his arm; he severed the wrist of the man who attacked him and tasted more hot blood in his gaping mouth. Bajadek was just four paces away, his back was turned, he did not see god’s wrath approaching . . . A wild swinging sword cut across Raklion’s right hamstring. He stumbled, shouting, and as his tired feet tangled in a dead horse’s entrails he fell forward, down across the spotted horse’s slit-apart belly. The stinking air was driven from his lungs, his blurring vision showed him horsehide and arrow shafts and three severed fingers abandoned in the mud. Bajadek turned. “Raklion warlord!” he shouted, joyful. “On his knees before me, among his dead. The god has delivered you, Bajadek is in its eye!Hold !” he commanded his war-lusty warrior. “This is a warlord, his short life ismine !” Gleeful and bloodsoaked, the sinning warlord approached. Raklion grunted and tried to stand but his body was spent, his strength all gone. His slashed leg would not hold him, he had no choice but to sprawl on the hulk of dead horse and repent his sins. Not one of his warriors was close by to aid him, Hano was not here, he tried to shout but he was speechless, like a rock. Aieee, Et-Raklion! I have failed you, I have failed the god. Will it desert me? Will my godspark go to hell? Death came towards him, and he was afraid. Why did you say I was godblessed, Nagarak? Why did you tell me I was safe in the god’s eye? Are you not my high godspeaker, do you not know the god’s true will? You said I would live, how can you be wrong? Above the faltering sounds of battle, a lilting, laughing, challenging cry. “Bajadek warlord! Bajadek warlord!” Raklion lifted his dizzy pounding head to look where Bajadek looked. He saw puzzled disbelief in his enemy’s face, felt his weary heart leap as he recognized who it was calling Bajadek’s name. “Bajadek warlord, it is time for you to die!” The challenging warrior danced across the charnel plain, danced towards Bajadek, a scarlet snakeblade in her scarlet hand. She was lithe, she was beautiful, bathed in blood like sacrificial milk. Hekat. Beneath his blood, Bajadek warlord was an ugly man. Hekat danced towards him, repulsed by his ugliness. He was all brute force, no grace, no lightness. His one good eye was wide and blue like the sky, his crimsoned skin as dark as night. He wore many godbells in his braided hair, but they were clogged

with gore and could not sing. She took this as an omen. The air she danced through was soaked in death. The ground she danced over was littered with warriors and horses, their emptied bowels and bladders sludging the earth and the soaked, crushed brown grasses. Their eyes were dead, they stared at nothing. Bajadek warlord’s living eye saw her. He held an axe in one hand and a sword in the other, they were smeared crimson from blade-point to hilt. He was wounded, his own blood mingled with the blood he had spilled from Raklion’s warhost. He stood up straight and laughed to see her. She challenged him again, dancing like sunlight across the crowded plain. So many warriors she had killed already, she could not count them. He would be one more. “Bajadek warlord! You must face me!” “Faceyou ? Achild ?” jeered Bajadek. He hefted his axe and brandished his sword. He stood there waiting, he was unafraid. An ugly man, and stupid, also. Hekat smiled and opened herself to the god. The god’s power filled her, it set her on fire, if Bajadek cut her she would bleed out its fury. Every one of his warriors she had danced with was left weeping scarlet tears as they died. A few of them had kissed her, she was cut in this place, bruised in that. Pain was a sacrifice to the god, she gloried in it, how else could she worship but with her blood? She danced with Bajadek, whose godbells were silenced. The warlord was a mighty man, and with his sword and axe was mightier still. He swung at her, he slashed at her, he roared his rage and screamed his hate. He could not touch her, she was in the god’s eye, and its grim power was her blood, her heart, it was her solace and her strength. Where Bajadek reached for her she was gone, twisting sideways or upwards or around him like smoke. Where he was, her snakeblade kissed him, it bled him like a black lamb on the god’s altar. She danced on sand, on a clean-swept street, he stumbled through entrails and staggered over splintered bones. Her hotas flowed like honey, sweet in her fingers, sweet in her toes. She was the sandcat, the lizard, the falcon dancing over the meadow. Her snakeblade was keen as mercy from the god. Inside her was stillness, death whispered in her ear. Lost in the knife-dance, feeling Raklion’s hot gaze on her, she smote Bajadek for him and for the god, a terrible ecstasy welling inside. I am Hekat, I know what I am. I am the god’s snakeblade, dancing in its eye. Bajadek warlord was ugly, and dying. His axe was fallen from his hand and Hekat had severed his wrist’s taut tendons so his fingers could no longer make a fist. His own great sword was shattered, his stolen sword not long enough to reach her. She had cut off his breastplate with two swift knife-strokes and laid him open to the bone. His arms were slashed like lamb for roasting, his legs were shredded scarlet ribbons. His heart’s blood pumped with each shuddering beat, there was more outside him than within. He breathed like a camel at the end of endurance. She stood before him on the balls of her feet, looking up into his blood-slicked face. “Bajadek warlord,

it is over. You displeased the god, the god has punished you.” Pain and fear dulled his bright blue eye. “Who are you?What are you?” “She is Hekat,” said Raklion’s pale, satisfied voice. “She is a warrior, godtouched and mine.” Bajadek’s fading gaze shifted to look past her. His slack face twisted with hate. “Raklion warlord. With seed like water, and a blunted spear.” Hekat killed him. Drew her snakeblade across his throat and watched without comment as the last of his red blood spurted from the wound. Bajadek stayed standing one moment, two moments. Then his dead knees buckled and he crashed to the ground. “Hekat,” said Raklion, and put his hand on her shoulder. She turned to him slowly, emptied of the god, emptied of power. Raklion, standing now, was hurt and bloody, he favored one leg and breathed as though the air was poisoned. She smiled at him, though she was hurting. “You watched me, warlord. You saw me dance.” “I watched you, Hekat.” He smiled back at her, a grimacing effort. “I saw you dance. You have slain my enemy. I am pleased with you.” Her hollowed heart lifted. The warlord of Et-Raklion had seen her, and was pleased.She is Hekat. Godtouched and mine . She was precious to him now, she had slain his enemy, she had saved his life. Her home was the barracks, for ever and ever. “I danced for you, warlord. I danced for the god.” “I know,” he whispered, and bent to kiss her brow. “The god thanks you, Hekat, and so do I.” “The battle is over?” His gaze swept across the almost silent plain. “It is over. We have won.” “No, warlord,” she told him, even as the sun was blotted from the sky and a dark veil fell before her face. “The god has won. It gives us the victory. Kill a bull-calf and drink in its honor.” “Hekat!” he shouted. She barely heard him. The last thing she felt was his strong hand, reaching for her, as she crumpled witless at his feet. Standing in the midst of carnage Raklion grunted as Wyngra godspeaker healed his sluggishly bleeding wounds. He had resisted godspeaker attentions as long as he could, his hurts were not mortal. Other warriors needed Wyngra’s godstone far more urgently than he. But he was the warlord and Wyngra had at last insisted, using the might of his office as leverage. He capitulated. To shout at Wyngra was to invite censure from Nagarak, once they were returned to Et-Raklion. It was two fingers past highsun, and Bajadek’s death. An unsteady hush mantled the bloody Plain of Drokar. The last of the dying had been sent to hell or to the god, a sharp knife in the throat their final gift.

Bajadek’s warriors who’d survived their warlord’s folly sat defeated on the reddened ground, watched over by warriors of victorious Et-Raklion. Each warhost’s dead had been separated and laid in rows, awaiting the godspeakers’ attentions. The horses too badly injured to save were killed and skinned, their hides bundled for curing, their harnesses saved for living horses. Crows argued over their naked carcasses even now, quick to feast on such generous bounty. The sky was rotten with black wings, wheeling. “You are certain Hekat has taken no serious hurt?” he said to Wyngra, clutching at the wheel of an upturned chariot. The godspeaker’s godstone burned against his severed hamstring, his flesh crawled and stretched, healing with enough pain to make him grunt and bite his lip. “The god protected her,” said Wyngra, unperturbed. He was a godspeaker of many seasons, he knew his business and the god’s. “She was exhausted and wounded a little. Her hurts are healed. She will sleep now until she wakes.” Raklion nodded with sharp relief.She is Hekat. Godtouched and mine . What a glory was in that child. Death and beauty, gifted to him by the god. She would be his warrior forever, fighting for him and for the god. “Good. Hanochek!” Six paces distant, Hanochek dismissed the warrior he spoke to in lowered tones, and approached. The god had seen him in its eye, he was whole and unharmed save for a little split skin and some drops of spilled blood, hardly enough to moisten dry bread. He stood beside the chariot wheel and pressed his fist against his unhurt heart. “Warlord?” “Tell me again how stands the tally?” “Of our number, four hundred dead, three hundred sorely wounded,” said Hano patiently. “One thousand hurt but able to ride. Almost a quarter of our horses slaughtered. We’ll make them up from Bajadek’s horses, if there are enough left living.” Raklion winced. Twice already Hano had given him the tally but his tired mind was reluctant to grasp it. Four hundred dead. Aieee, how his heart wept. “What else, Hano? What bad tidings do you not give me?” Hano hesitated, then sighed. “Warlord, among the fallen there are Dokoy Spear-leader and Bodrik Chariot-leader.” “Aieee!” The news was pain greater than any sword-cut or knife-stab. His fingers tightened on the chariot wheel, and splinters bit him. Dokoy and Bodrik, great warriors. He’d chosen them himself to stand as leaders. “They died for the god, Hano. They are not gone to hell.” Hano wept without shame, tears diluting the blood on his face. He and Bodrik had been particular friends. “I know, warlord.” Raklion gripped Hano’s arm, lending him a little of his meager strength. He could not weep openly, he was the warlord. “You said nearly two thousand of Bajadek’s warriors are slain?” “Yes, warlord.”

“No word yet on Bajadek’s second son?” Hano shook his head. “The godspeakers are searching Et-Bajadek’s death piles. If Banotaj is there with his father and brother, they’ll find him.” Wyngra straightened and slipped his godstone into its pouch. “Warlord, stand on your leg now. Show me you are whole again.” Raklion released his grip on Hanochek’s arm. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence, he let his injured thigh take his weight. No pain, a little stiffness. He walked five paces, then nodded and walked back. “That is good, Wyngra. Join your fellow godspeakers in the search for Bajadek’s second son among the slain.” Wyngra bowed. “Warlord.” As Wyngra departed, Raklion frowned at Hanochek. They were alone now beside the upturned chariot. For a short time unobserved. He could show his tiredness and grief to Hano, there was no loss of strength in that. He leaned his hip against the chariot’s splintered pole-staff and let it take his burdensome weight. Wyngra had plucked the arrowhead from his thigh, but the wound was still sore. “Perhaps Banotaj is fled back to his father’s city,” he mused. “Leaving his father and brother dead on the battlefield?” said Hano, sounding doubtful. “Naked to the crow-filled sky, without the proper rites? Let us hope not, warlord. If he lives he’s the warlord now. Such cowardice does not bode well.” Raklion agreed. Bajadek warlord had tried to steal another warlord’s godpromised wife. Such godless trickery could be a disease, passed from father to son like plague, with kissing. Cowardice could be its symptom. “Has our godspeaker returned from Et-Bajadek city?” “Not yet, warlord.” “Send him to me the moment he returns, Hano, and also when this Banotaj is found. I will walk among my warriors now. I will shed silent tears for my fallen before they burn on the pyre.” “Yes, warlord,” said Hano, and bowed his head. Then he looked up. “I will make special sacrifice when we are home again, Raklion. When I saw you bloody I feared the worst.” Raklion smiled, and held him close. “The god sees me, Hano. It sees me in its eye. It sent me Hekat knife-dancer, a child with the godspeark of a mighty warrior. Aieee, if you had seen her. Bajadek warlord fell like wheat before her scythe. There is no need for Nagarak to test her blood, I have seen what she is. The god has shown me. She is Bajadek’s doom, my gift from the god.” Hano stepped back. His eyes were wary. “If you say so, warlord.” “I say so, warleader,” he said, displeased by Hano’s displeasure. “She is the god’s gift, her teeth are made of gold. Now obey my want. There is much to be done before we can ride home in triumph.” “Warlord,” said Hano, and departed to his duties.

Weary, heavy-hearted for his losses, Raklion thrust aside Hano’s resentment of godgiven Hekat, put on his warlord’s face and went to mourn the fallen with his warriors. The funeral pyres were lit at lowsun, for the victors and the vanquished. Bajadek’s only living son had been found senseless among the wounded. Revived, he torched his father’s cold remains, and his brother’s. Then he torched the warrior pyres, built from the bodies of his father’s fallen and timber brought by Et-Bajadek’s sullen godspeakers. Soaked in pitch the pyres burned and burned, sparks like godsparks flying into the starlit sky. Banotaj was a young man, twenty seasons had he seen. Raklion, regarding him, his own pyres already burning, his silent tears shed, his warriors praised and comforted, wondered how he would fare as warlord. It would be no bad thing if he faltered, I think. A neighboring warlord embroiled in domestic bickering is one kept safely inside his borders. When the last pyre was set alight and Banotaj had returned to stand with Raklion and the godspeakers from both sides of the conflict, sacrifice was made by Wyngra and one of Bajadek’s godspeakers. The bull-calf blood was caught in two gold cups and presented to the warlords. The warlords unsheathed their knives and slashed their arms, they dripped their blood into their cups, then swapped them, in silence. In silence they drank, in sight of the god and its godspeakers and the gathered warriors, to signify an end to war. “Banotaj warlord,” said Raklion, as his wounded arm was bound with linen. No godspeaker healing for this hurt, there must be a scar to record the peace. “The days of Et-Bajadek are done with and dead. That name now passes into history. You are Banotaj warlord of Et-Banotaj.” Bajadek’s son had a sulky mouth. His eyes were small, and too far apart. His teeth were bad, with empty pits no longer jeweled. Healed of his battle wounds, the scars still livid, he said, begrudging, “Raklion warlord. I will take my warriors and return to my city, now that proper honors are done.” Raklion nodded. “My warhost will camp one more night on this Plain of Drokar. At newsun I will take funerary ashes from my pyres and depart. My quarrel was with Bajadek, defier of the god’s want. He is dead. The god desires peace between us. My son ripens in Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. Sire your own son, Banotaj. Teach him the lessons learned here this day and in doing so you will appease the god.” Banotaj’s small, wide eyes slitted with impotent rage. “You are not my father, to give me advice.” Raklion leaned close. “That is true. I killed your father. Let his death be his last lesson to you.” “I was told a girl-child killed Bajadek,” said Banotaj, his whole face a sneer. “Youwere crawling in the mud.” They had drunk the peace blood; striking the boy would be a sin. Raklion bared his teeth, though, to hint at possibilities. “I am the warlord, Banotaj. All your dead warriors died by my hand.” Banotaj smiled. “The warrior who killed my father is loved by me for slitting his throat. Which one is she, Raklion? Take me to her. I would give thanks for her clever knife. She has saved me from a tedious task.”

Raklion stared. Banotaj would plot his own father’s death? No wonder Bajadek had sought Et-Nogolor’s Daughter if this was a sample of his get. Disgusted, he folded his arms. “Our business is finished. Take your misguided godspeakers and your defeated warriors and go. Think not to disturb the peace of Mijak, unless you are eager for the god to smite you as today it smote your father.” Banotaj spat on the Plain of Drokar and walked away. The night air was heavy with the stench of burned flesh. No kind breeze dispersed the smoke or the stink. With Hano beside him, Raklion watched Banotaj and his people depart the silent battlefield. “You should rest now, Raklion,” said Hano, solicitous. His temper was sweet again, their friendship returned. “All is done that can and should be done. Come newsun we will gather our fallen’s ashes to take home to the godhouse, then sing songs of their courage all the way to Et-Raklion.” Raklion nodded. “Will you rest with me? My heart is heavy with our losses, Hano. This is one night I would not be alone.” “Of course,” said Hano. His eyes were gentle, and pleased. “You are my warlord and my friend.” What Raklion wanted was to rest with Hekat, but no warlord could lie with a common warrior. A chance child of their coupling would be abomination. Warlords fucked concubines and sired children on women bred from warlord blood. He could not—must not—lie with Hekat. His body ached for need of her. “Come, friend,” he said, and draped an arm about Hano’s muscled shoulders. “Lighten my heart and make me smile. Tomorrow we return victorious to Et-Raklion. Show me how to celebrate tonight.” CHAPTER SIXTEEN They returned triumphant to Et-Raklion, and Et-Raklion greeted them with song and sacrifice. The warhost paraded the streets of every district so the people might see Raklion warlord and his mighty warriors, smiters of Bajadek, fist of the god. Even the slaves were allowed to dance. Raklion laughed as his people threw flowers, and coins, and amulets. His warriors kept the wilting flowers, Nagarak’s godspeakers took the rest. Riding beside him, Hano laughed. “You should show your face to the city more often, warlord. See how they love you? Like your warriors, they love you.” Raklion smiled, it was not his answer. They would love me better if I gave them a son. Six godmoons from now I will have one to give them. Then will I show my face more often. Then will they have good reason to love me. Triumph is fleeting. A son is forever. The ashes of Et-Raklion’s fallen were interred in the godhouse, where Nagarak and his godspeakers prayed for them three highsuns without ceasing. Raklion prayed with them for one highsun, then for two highsuns witnessed his warriors’ funeral games for the fallen. Hekat danced before him, one warrior among thousands. Raklion pretended not to see her, he did not smile. Hano sat with him, he would not

approve were she singled out. Five highsuns after the funeral games were ended, as the night cooled towards the quiet time, he was disturbed in his private chamber by a body slave. “Trader Abajai is in the palace, warlord,” the slave said softly. “He requests an urgent audience.” Abajai? Intrigued, concerned, Raklion put aside the tablet he was reading, dressed in his finest blue linen robe and crimson wool cloak and received the Trader in his public chamber. Abajai had not come alone, his partner Yagji attended with him. “Warlord,” said Abajai, prostrated beside Yagji on the marble floor. Straight-backed in his warlord’s chair, Raklion gestured for them to rise. “Traders. Why do you disturb my peace? Do you bring me further word of trouble on the road?” Abajai bowed. “No, warlord. We bring you word of trouble in your warhost.” In his warhost? Raklion frowned, and put a bite in his voice. “What do Traders know of my warhost? It is warlord business, and none of yours.” Yagji whimpered. “Warlord, please hear us. We have had word something precious of ours is in your possession.” Something oftheirs ? Raklion drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I cannot see how this is so. A warlord has no need of Trader baubles.” With a sharp glance at Yagji, Abajai stepped forward. A bold move, he was clearly distressed. “Warlord, may I explain?” “You may. Swiftly. Or be swiftly punished for your temerity.” The Traders had worn their costliest robes, which was only proper. Abajai slid his hands into his green silk sleeves and said, “Warlord, you know Traders oft trade in whispers.” “I do.” “You also know whispers whispered to us, then to you, have served you honestly in the past.” He let them see his growing impatience. “We do not whisper now, Abajai. Now we speak plainly.” Yagji flinched, and Abajai nodded. “Warlord. It is whispered to us that Bajadek warlord was slain by a knife-dancer in your warhost. It is whispered she is a mere child, who appeared in your barracks from nowhere, alone, a handful of godmoons ago. Is that a true whisper, warlord, or must we smite the whisperer as a sinning liar?” Raklion felt his heart thud, once.Hekat . What mischief was this? “Bajadek warlord was slain by a knife-dancer. That is true.” Yagji yelped and scuttled closer. “Warlord, warlord, is her name Hekat? Aiece! Your face tells me it is! Warlord, you are wickedly sinned against, you are her victim!We are her victims, Aba and me! Warlord,

this Hekat is a runawayslave , bought by us in the savage north! She cost us a fortune in food, in clothing, in hiring a tutor to—” Raklion lowered his upraised hand. “Trader Abajai. This is true?” Abajai nodded, and the godbells braided into his hair chimed in sorrowful agreement. “Warlord, it is. If the knife-dancer Hekat is the girl I paid coin for beyond the lands of Et-Jokriel.” “This knife-dancer claims to come from Et-Nogolor.” “We passed through Et-Nogolor on our way to Et-Raklion,” said Abajai. “But she did not come from there.” Raklion hid his pain behind his face, his heart beat hard with cruel foreboding. “The knife-dancer we speak of bears no slave-braid.” “She ran away before it was given her,” said Yagji, his glance at Abajai an accusation. “Warlord, truly, she is our slave.” “What does she look like, this runaway Hekat?” “She is beautiful, warlord,” said Abajai. “I could have sold her for five thousand gold pieces, that is the limit of her beauty.” Itwas the limit. Traders could not sell a ruined face full of scars. But to him Hekat’s scars were nothing. To him she was beyond a price. Hekat his warrior, his knife, his dancer. But if she were a runaway slave ... Hekat . . . Hekat . . . what have you done? “Who knows of this?” he said. “Who have you told, that my warrior is your missing property?” “No-one, warlord,” said Abajai. “It hurts our reputation to be known as Traders who cannot control a single girl-child. And the whispers might be wrong. Until we see her, nothing is certain.” Raklion struck the bronze summoning bell. “Send to the barracks for the warrior Hekat,” he told its answering slave. “Bring her before me, with discretion.” He waited in silence, without looking at the Traders. They stood together and stared at their feet, they knew better than to tempt his temper with uninvited talk. Hekat . . . Hekat . . . what have you done? She came to him softly, her bare feet kissing the cold marble floor. Her hurts from the battle were completely healed. Even her spiderweb scars were fading, turning to silver with the passage of time. She wore a linen training tunic, badly sewn around the hem. Her snakeblade was belted at her waist. In her left ear, her arrowhead dangled. She saw Abajai and Yagji, and stood quite still. “Hekat,” said Raklion, his belly twisting, his loins on fire. “The Traders Abajai and Yagji disturb my rest

with a tale of you. They claim your ownership. They say you are property, their runaway slave. Is this falsehood or is this truth?” Before she could answer, Yagji turned on her. “You wicked brat, you ungrateful wretch, you horrible horrible little liar!” His eyes were bulging, spittle flecked his lips. “Retoth wasflogged because of you, I couldn’t keep a meal down for three full highsuns, he wept and pleaded for mercy so! Howdare you run away from us? We saved you from that godforsaken village, we offered you life in the civilized south!” She stood her ground in the face of his anger, like a knife-dancer on the field of war. “A life as a slave. I did not want that.” Yagji gobbled. “Who are we to care whatyou want? You were bought and paid for, there is the end of it!” “Hekat,” said Abajai. His face was disdainful. “You lied to yourself, you cannot lie here. You knew you were purchased. You were ignorant but you knew that much. What foolish tales you told yourself after, because I was wise and protected my investment, they are no concern of mine. You were my slave then. You are my slave now.” Raklion watched and listened. His heart tolled like a godbell in his chest. They cannot have her. And I will not give her to Nagarak for nailing. She is Hekat. Godtouched and mine. Her blue eyes glittered. “The coin you parted with makes no difference, Abajai. I am no man’s slave, I belong to the god.” Ignoring that, Abajai stepped close and touched her scars. “You did that to your face?” She smiled unflinching until he stepped back. “No. The god did it.” Abajai sighed, and shook his head. “Foolish Hekat. When you were beautiful, you were precious to me. Now you are nothing, you are meat with maggots, you are a horse with a broken leg. Worthless. Useless. A waste of the air.” Hekat’s scars tightened as she frowned. “I am Hekat. I dance with my snakeblade. I killed a warlord for the god.” Her straight finger pointed. “You are a Trader. You peddle in flesh. Your purpose was to find me in the savage north so I could serve the god by serving Raklion, its warlord. Your purpose is done. You may go now, Aba.” As Abajai hissed and Yagji squealed his outrage, Raklion swallowed laughter. So bold, so proud. Hekat . . . I love you. Abajai turned. “Warlord, do you see we tell the truth?” Raklion nodded, hiding reluctance. “I see my warrior is Abajai’s slave. Does Abajai suggest I stole her from him?” “No, warlord!” cried Yagji. “We suggest no such thing! How were you to know what she was? You weregrossly deceived, and so were we!”

“You wish to take her?” Abajai snorted. “Take home meat with maggots in it? Bridle a horse with a broken leg? She is a runaway, warlord. She spits on the god. Let the god take her. Let her perish in its eye, let her be nailed to the runaway’s godpost and left to die in pish and pain. That is the fate of runaway slaves.” Hekat’s head lifted, her fingers rested on her blade. Her eyes found Raklion’s, wide and questioning. He drummed his fingers, and she relaxed. “You are certain of this, Trader Abajai? You renounce your ownership, you give her to Nagarak high godspeaker for smiting?” “Warlord, I am certain. She is Nagarak’s now.” He nodded. “So be it. I will send her to the godhouse that she might be punished.” Yagji’s fat face was bloated with spite. “When will the high godspeaker kill her, warlord? I want to be there. I want to see this vicious bitch die. We are owed that much, for what she has stolen.” “It is your right, Trader. A message will be sent. Return home now, and speak of this business to no-one.” The Traders bowed and withdrew from the chamber, not a single look for the girl-child they condemned. Hekat said, “You will not give me to Nagarak for killing.” “No?” said Raklion, and looked at her with narrowed eyes. “But Hekat, you are a runaway slave. The law is the law, I must not flout it.” She shrugged. “The law is nothing beside the god. It sent those Traders to buy me for its purpose. It guided me to your barracks so I might serve.” “What if your service was to slay Bajadek warlord? You have slain him. Perhaps your death must serve it now.” “Tcha,” she said, like a scornful nursemaid. “The god is not yet finished with me.” For the first time. Raklion felt a roil of unease. “The god? Or a demon? Hekat, you are no ordinary girl-child. I fear you have snared me in a demon’s trap.” She reached beneath her tunic and pulled out her amulet, the black stone scorpion that drank the light. “Here is the god’s symbol, warlord. Could I wear it unsmitten if I served a demon?” Godspeaker wisdom said she could not. “Howold are you?” he demanded. She shrugged again. “Old enough to slay Bajadek in battle.” Old enough to stir his loins. She was his heart, standing outside him. “Are you truly from the savage north? I have never been there, I am told it is harsh.”

“I am from the god, warlord,” she said, impatient. “The rest is nothing, it is foam on sadsa.” “And what of Trader Abajai?” he asked her. “What of his petulant partner, Yagji? They think Ido send you to Nagarak for killing.” She did not answer. The silence deepened, it filled with blood. He said, after some time, “If you are discovered I must deny you.” She smiled, it was a fearsome sight. “I will not be discovered, warlord. I am in the god’s blinding eye, no-one sees me when I hide there.” Raklion sat back in his warlord’s chair and fingered his godbraids. Their godbells chimed, praising the god. The world is full of Traders, peddling flesh and useful whispers. I could throw a stone from the palace and strike another Abajai, another Yagji, without taking careful aim. The Traders district is overrun with them, like rats. He sat in his chair, and watched Hekat leave. It was the quiet time in Et-Raklion as Hekat walked through the streets to the Traders district. The prowling godspeakers looked past and through her, she expected it, she was not amazed. The god was guiding her, she could feel its presence. Its mystery cloaked her, closing every eye to her silent passing. The cream stone wall of Abajai and Yagji’s expensive villa was no barrier to her. She was a trained knife-dancer now, she needed no convenient tree. She leapt from the street to the wall’s wide top, then lightly into the garden below. Yagji’s bubbling fountains sounded loud in the silence, but otherwise not even a nightbird broke the bush. No lamplight showed behind the villa’s shuttered windows, Abajai and Yagji were not entertaining, they were safe in their beds certain she would soon die. They mocked the god. She would prove them wrong. She slipped through the darkness to the rear of the villa, to the door that led in and out of the slaves’ vegetable garden. Easing it open, stepping inside the villa’s slave quarters, she stood for a moment to see if any slave stirred. She heard nothing. Retoth slept, and the other slaves with him. Her unshod feet trod the passage to the staircase, they took her up into the villa where Abajai and Yagji dreamed, unawares. The nightlamps in the corridors were burning, that was the only thin light in the villa. Every lavish room was sunk in shadow, shadows cloaked her as she breathed her soft way to the villa’s sleeping chambers. She would deal with Yagji first. He was a mound beneath his blankets, all his godbraids tied up in a scarf. The flickering bedlamp on the table, lit against demons, burning incense, showed her his slack mouth drooping, drooling. His shifting eyes beneath their eyelids. His overfed flesh and the pettiness he carried with him like coin, that wafted from him like spoiled perfume. Around her neck the scorpion amulet trembled. It was a carved stone thing, and yet it felt alive. She eased the amulet over her head and unthreaded it from its leather thong with steady, unhurried fingers.

When it was free she held it before her eyes, feasting her gaze on it, seeking to know the god’s desire. I am a knife-dancer, I have my blade. Shall I slit Yagji’s throat, god? Shall I kill him like a goat? An answer came, not in words but as a feeling. No. What happened here was sacred business, not the bloody slaughter of the battlefield. Guided by impulse, by the god’s silent voice, she tugged back Yagji’s covering blankets and set the stone amulet on his bare chest. The god was in her stone scorpion, let her stone scorpion be its instrument. Die, Yagji. Die a sinning man. She waited, barely breathing. Was it the lamplight or did the scorpion ripple? She could hear her heart beating, drumming for the god. Yagji woke. His eyes flew open. He saw her standing there and tried to scream, but no sound left his open mouth. He looked at the scorpion on his skin, dark eyes wide with rising terror and pain. Hekat leaned over him. “You stupid Yagji. I belong to the god. You cannot touch me. You belong to demons.” A whimper escaped him. He tried to throw the scorpion from him, he could not grasp it, it would not move. He tried to sit up, the scorpion pinned him. He was pinned to the mattress, weighed down by the god. Water filled his eyes, it slid down his cheeks. “No . . . no . . .”His voice was a whisper, his bones were chalk. Slowly, so slowly, the god extinguished his godspark. Unmoved, Hekat watched the life drain from his bulging eyes. They dimmed, they faded, they died completely. Yagji was dead, and gone to hell. She lifted the scorpion from his unmoving chest and carried it along the passageway to Abajai’s room. Serene and sleeping, he did not stir. For a small time she stood by his bed and watched him, breathing deep of the incense he burned against demons. She stared at the scarlet scorpion on his cheek. She had never liked Yagji, but Abajai she had loved and trusted. Only the god deserves love and trust. She placed the stone scorpion on Abajai’s chest. Like Yagji before him the Trader woke startled, his body filled with pain and fear. He clawed at the amulet but could not remove it, its carved stone pincers were sunk in his flesh. There was sorrow in her this time, for the Hekat who had loved him, for the man she’d thought he was. She banished it, coldly. Sorrow was weak. “You go to hell now, Abajai,” she told him. “Go to Yagji, he waits for you. The god wants no godspark of a wicked man.You are the meat with maggots in it.You are the horse with a broken leg. I am not your slave, I belong to the god. If you had seen this I would not be here. You would not be dying a sinner’s death.” His ribcage labored as he struggled for air. His taloned fingers reached for her but she was beyond him. She was always beyond him, she knew that now. He should have known but he would not listen.

Stupid Abajai, deaf to the god. When the scorpion was finished, and Abajai was dead, she left the villa as she had entered. Unheard, unseen, except by the god. Sighing, Vortka shifted the offering-satchel from his left shoulder to his right. It wasn’t as heavy as it could be, public offerings had dwindled since the celebrations of Raklion warlord’s victory over Bajadek, but still it was heavy enough. With the satchel resettled and aching his spine, he took his small godknife from his robe pocket and nicked the side of his left hand’s little finger. Crimson blood welled reluctantly, as tired of flowing as he was of cutting himself. Ignoring the small, familiar pain he smeared the snake-eye carved into the godpost at the end of Eluissa Way. Power swelled and surged and he felt a warm pleasure. I am a godspeaker. I serve the god. Leaving the newly sanctified and protected Eluissa godbowl behind him he trudged the city’s cobblestones to the next. Its godpost guarded the end of Dog-tooth Alley, which marked the beginning of the Traders district. He’d started collection duty just after newsun, and still the city’s streets were nearly deserted. A few slaves scurried about their masters’ business, some early risers reclined on curtained litters or sat upright in slave-drawn carriages. He did not speak to them, they did not speak to him. Godspeakers were revered and feared, even the novices, something he had never looked for in his life. Before his father’s death, before his mother became wife to that other man, he’d always thought he’d be a potsmith. That like a good son he’d follow the path trod by his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father, all the way back to the world’s beginning. Potsmithing with clay and bronze and reed and carved stone was honest work seen in the god’s eye. He had not asked for more than that. He had not asked to be agodspeaker . Like everyone in his village of Todorok, in all of Mijak, he prayed the god saw him in its eye. He attended sacrifice, he obeyed the god’s law, he wore his amulets and made sure the godspeaker never saw him inhis eye, for being seen by a godspeaker almost never boded well. He lived his life believing the goddid see him, he worked hard as a potboy for his father, knowing he would soon be old enough for proper potsmithing tasks. But then his potsmith father died and he disappeared entirely from the god’s all-seeing eye. After that came pain and grief, then Trader Abajai with his chains. He saw himself a slave until the day he died. He did not dream the god had another purpose for him. The instant his fingers closed about the godstone in Et-Nogolor city’s slave pen he knew he was no slave but a chosen servant of the god. The god’s power poured into him, scouring away the old Vortka, polishing the new. The path before him became unknown and unknowable, the god did not share its secrets with mortals. Not until a mortal was needed. That was its way, he would never question it. True, life as a novice wasn’t easy or painless, but what did that matter? Nothing mattered but the god. It had saved him from slavery, brought him to Et-Raklion, it had crossed his path with the knife-dancer Hekat, that strange fierce warrior-child he had never forgotten. She is chosen, as I am. In its time the god will tell me why.

Until then he would serve in the godhouse, he would be the god’s slave. Godhouse chains were not so hard to bear. The godbowl at the end of Dog-tooth Alley was scarcely one-third full. Vortka frowned. Traders were rich men, they could do better than this. He emptied their miserly offerings into his satchel, sealed the godpost and its bowl and walked deeper into the Traders district. If its other godbowls were not more generously filled he would have to tell Salakij novice-master, who would tell Nagarak, and Nagarak would punish the Traders for disrespecting the god. He shuddered. Foolish Traders, if that was their fate. The sun was higher in the sky by two fingers now, and more people hurried about their business. If there was one good thing in tramping the streets, emptying godbowls, it was the chance to leave the godhouse for a time, see faces that did not surround him in the godhouse. Many tested godspeakers served in the city, they were the weft and warp of Et-Raklion, of every warlord city in Mijak, but never novices. They could not be trusted with important administrative tasks. If Salakij were to be believed, novices could barely be trusted with a broom. As he walked the streets he rested his godsense, a godspeaker’s ability to taste emotions and scent a man’s sin, to sense the past and sometimes the future. To know things unknown by any man not touched by the god. It was whispered among the novices that Nagarak had the power to read men’s minds as though they were common tablets of clay, but who could say if that were true? The high godspeaker spawned more rumors than a fly laid maggots. He could not read minds himself, that was all he knew. But ever since he’d woken the godstone in Et-Nogolor he’d been able to sense moods, and sometimes hidden meanings in the world. That was impressive for a novice godspeaker. Even as he opened himself to the mosaic emotions of hurrying slaves and bustling Traders he looked around him at the district’s expensive villas. Life was odd, filled with the god’s mystery. If the Trader caravan had not stopped in Et-Nogolor he might have ended up here, a humble slave with a scarlet godbraid. Abajai and Yagji lived on one of these streets. He would know them at once, but doubted they would recognize him. He had never been a person to them, he was walking coin, gold in chains. Would they recognize Hekat if they saw her? He hoped not, for she was their runaway. Bad things happened to runaway slaves. He pinched himself, to stop wrong thinking.Worry for Hekat is a sin. She belongs to the god, it will protect her. If you doubt that, you must kneel for the cane . He did not want to kneel for the cane. Besides, how would Abajai and Yagji see her? Traders had no business with warriors. And Hekat was different now, not just because of the scars. She was taller, stronger, her bones were tightly roped with muscle. Her face beneath its spiderweb had changed, she was a warrior with blood in her eyes. It would be best for those Traders if they didnot see her or show they knew her if they did. With a deep breath in and out Vortka loosened his painful grip on the satchel straps and bent his thoughts towards his duty.

The godpost godbowl on Travas Street was half-filled with offerings, a more satisfactory result even if it did mean the weight of his offering-satchel almost bent him double. He could manage one more bowl’s offerings but that was all, if he filled the satchel to the brim it would pull his spine to pieces, he was certain. To save himself from that calamity he would have to return to the godhouse after his next collection, deliver his satchel’s contents into the godhouse treasury, then return to the city to complete his task. Tcha. And the godhouse kitcheners wondered at the appetites of novice godspeakers . . . Swallowing a sigh lest the god think he was complaining, Vortka trudged past villa after villa towards Rokbrot Way, where the next godbowl waited. Just as he reached a long cream stone wall his novice godsense hummed a warning. A heartbeat later he heard a fearful screeching, the sound of panicked running feet. Then the villa wall’s blue-painted door flew open and he looked in surprise upon a panting slave. “Godspeaker! Godspeaker! My masters are dead! Both of them stone-dead in their beds!” “What do you mean, slave? How are they dead? What has killed them?” The distraught slave wrung his plump well-kept hands. “Demons, godspeaker! It must be demons! Please, I beg you, come see for yourself!” Vortka hesitated. He was only a novice, demons were dealt with by those older and wiser than he. But if he sent for a superior and demons were not present, if he wasted that superior’s time . . . “Show me, slave.” The slave’s tear-streaked face quivered with relief. “Yes, godspeaker. Hurry, hurry, follow me!” Once inside the lavish villa, where more distressed slaves wept and milled, Vortka let his heavy satchel slide from his shoulder to the polished tile floor. “Someone must stand with these godhouse offerings,” he said. Seeing the slaves start with fright, he took off his amulet and held it out. “Here is my demoncharm, blessed by Nagarak himself. If demons abide here they will not dare strike the wearer of this amulet.” “You there!” said the slave who’d fetched him, pointing to a young strong man. “Take the godspeaker’s demoncharm and guard his satchel with your life!” “Yes, Retoth,” the young slave murmured, and did as he was told. “You are called Retoth?” Vortka asked. The slave nodded. “Then, Retoth, take me to your dead masters.” CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The slave Retoth was reluctant to enter the cold, still sleeping chamber. Hanging back, he pointed through the open doorway and said, his voice unsteady, “There lies my master Abajai.” Vortka faltered.Abajai? Was there more than one Abajai in the Traders district? He took a deep breath and entered the room. One glance at the bed’s occupant told him there was not. “You found him like

this?” “Yes, godspeaker. I have not touched him.” Abajai’s eyes were wide and staring, a fearful glare of agony and despair. Raised and blistered, the flesh of his naked chest echoed the image of a scorpion. The tattooed scorpion in his cheek was faded. Shriveled. This was godsmite, unmistakable. “Show me the other one,” he told the slave. Yagji’s face was a mirror of Abajai’s, a dreadful rictus of terror and pain. Burned in his chest, the same angry scorpion. “This was no demon,” Vortka told the slave Retoth. “This was the god. Send a slave to the godhouse, tell them Vortka calls for aid.Now , Retoth.” But Retoth was transfixed. “Thegod has taken my masters from me?” he whispered. “Butwhy , godspeaker? What was their sin? They weregood men, they—” Vortka struck him across the face. “You dare to question in a room still filled with the god’s dread presence? Do you wish to join your masters in hell?” Retoth gobbled in his throat, like a chicken. “No, godspeaker!” “Then do as I bid you! And put the other slaves away where they will not be troublesome underfoot.” The slave Retoth stumbled from Yagji’s chamber. A moment later Vortka heard him shouting, and the hurried shuffling of many feet. Ignoring that, he looked again at the body on the bed. Why are you dead, Yagji, you and Abajai? Why did the god smite you? How did you sin, to be so struck doun? Burdened with dread, with unanswered questions, he returned to the villa’s entrance hall and waited for the senior godspeakers to arrive. When they came at last, a breath before highsun, they dismissed him to the godhouse. Relieved, Vortka escaped the villa with his heavy offering-satchel and struggled with it up the Pinnacle Road. After attending sacrifice he witnessed the collected coins and amulets counted into the treasury, then was freed until lowsun to pursue private dedications. It meant he could hide himself in the library and study the law and godhouse history. He could kneel before a godpost in the shrine garden and open his heart and mind to the god. He could train his body in the disciplines of godspeakerhotas , rigorous exercises designed to tone the body and keep it supple for the god. He could present himself to the taskmasters and offer his flesh for mortification, in remorse for all his novice shortcomings. He did none of these permitted things. Instead he slipped from the godhouse and went to find Hekat. She sat on a camp-bed in her shell-barracks, mending a pile of blade-slashed tunics. She was alone.

When she wasn’t training or eating she was always alone. Alone with her snakeblade, dancing herhotas again and again. That was how she worshipped the god. He wondered if she ever got lonely, but so far hadn’t asked her. Something in her face discouraged those kinds of questions. “Hekat,” he said, and closed the door behind him. She stared in surprise. “Vortka? You should not be here. What do you want?” “To talk.” He looked at the pile of mending on the floor at her feet. Many of the tunics were stained brownish-red about the fraying slices in the fabric. “These are all yours?” “Tcha!” she said, and poked the tunics with a bare toe. “Not one of them is mine, stupid Vortka. You think a snakeblade touches me when I knife-dance with my shell?” “Then who do they belong to?” “Beginner knife-dancers come to join Raklion’s warhost.” She raised her arms above her head and stretched, like a cat. He tried not to notice the lift of her small breasts beneath the linen covering her body. She was a warrior and he was not a vessel, there could be no meeting of their flesh. To hope otherwise was to condemn himself to the most severe tasking in the godhouse. “More knife-dancers is a good thing, isn’t it?” he said, distracting himself. Her scars tangled themselves with contempt. “They dream of glory because we defeated Bajadek warlord, they think every day is a day of war. They think it is easy, to be a warrior.” She smiled, unkindly. “They are learning different. They make me laugh.” He looked again at the pile of tunics. “If they are not yours, Hekat, why do you mend them?” “Tcha!” she spat, and leapt off her camp-bed to dance lightly down the shell-barracks center aisle and back again. “Stupid Zapotar, he punishes Hekat. I did not show myself to him when I came back to barracks last night. He says I sinned. He does not dare beat me, Raklion warlord sees me in his eye, so he says I must not dance myhotas , I must sit in this place and stab myself with needles.” She made a face. “That is not really why he is angry. He is angry because I killed Bajadek warlord, I saved Raklion’s life. He is jealous, I am the best knife-dancer and the warhost knows it.” Vortka felt his heart squeeze tight. He had heard about Bajadek’s slaying, who had not? But the warlord’s death was not important now.Abajai and Yagji, slain in their beds . “You were out of the barracks last night?” With exquisite control she turned slow and steady cartwheels between the long rows of camp-beds. The scorpion amulet round her neck swung to and fro, fracturing shadows. As the stone caught the light something about it tugged at his memory, he could not think why and pushed the thought aside for later. She was beautiful, turning cartwheels. When she was finished she stood before him, fierce and fearless. “The warlord sent to see me. I went to him. We spoke. I returned.” “When did you return?” She shrugged. “The godmoon and his wife were in the sky. I paid no closer attention than that.”

“Hekat . . .” Aiece, how his heart was pounding. “Abajai and Yagji were killed last night.” Behind its scars her face was indifferent. But in her eyes he saw cold flames flickering. “You say so?” “I saw their bodies. They are dead.” She said nothing. She was not surprised. Seeing that, his skin went cold. “You did not need me to tell you. You knew already.” “And if I did?” she retorted. “Is that your business? I think it is not.” She had killed a warlord, slain him with her sharp snakeblade. That was warrior business . . . but the Traders were not. “Hekat, please. Are you bound in this? Is their blood on your hands? Did you kill them?” “Tcha,” she said, and bent herself backwards until her hands touched the floor behind her. “The god killed them, Vortka. If you saw them you know that is true.” “But you were there, weren’t you? You are somehow involved.” Curved like a horseshoe, she did not deny it. Staring at her, he felt sick and uncertain, his head felt light. “Tell me what happened.” With astonishing agility she flipped around and over and onto her feet. “You know what happened,” she said, flicking him a dark look. “The Traders died.” “Why?” “Because they were stupid, they defied the god. They stopped their ears and refused to heed its wanting. They are no loss.” He could have smacked her. “Tell me properly. Tell me everything.” Frowning, Hekat drifted her fingers to the snakeblade on her belt. Then she sighed. “They learned where I was, Vortka. They told the warlord I belonged to them. They told the warlord they wanted me dead. The god does not want me dead, the god sees me in its eye and wants me to live. I returned to their villa. I watched them die. I came back to the barracks and now I mend tunics. That is what happened. You can go away now.” He had no intention of going anywhere, not until she told him everything. “Hekat, they died bygodsmite !” She smiled, and touched the amulet around her neck. “I know. I put my scorpion on them and the god’s power in me stopped their wicked hearts. They died in terrible fear and pain.” The smile twisted. “Stupid Traders.” The god’s power in her? How could that be? She was a warrior, only a godspeaker contained the god’s power. Determined to prove her wrong he opened his godsense and looked at her with his inner eyes. Touching her godspark was like breathing fire. He gasped, muscles spasming, and wrenched himself free of the cauldron that was Hekat before she burned him to ash and crumbling bone. “You see?” she said. “The god is in me. I live in its eye.”

“I see,” he croaked, his throat scorched. “What you have shown me—it is dangerous to know. If Nagarak finds out . . . will you killme now, Hekat? Will you put your scorpion on my flesh and watch it sendmy godspark to hell?” She dropped to the nearest camp-bed, flames still flickering in her eyes. He felt their echo in his blood. “Why would the god want your death, Vortka? You are godtouched as I am godtouched. You will not betray me. The god knows this and so do I.” He wet his dry lips. “Abajai and Yagji . . .” “Are dead because they wished to deny the god’s desire. You love the god, you serve the god, it chose you in that Et-Nogolor slave pen. Do not fear me, Vortka. I am not your death.” She was so young, yet she had killed a warlord. The god burned in her, its shadows darkening her face. Vortka shivered. “I am frightened, Hekat. You frighten me,” he whispered. “I am a potsmith made slave turned godspeaker. What is my place here? What is yours?” She laughed at him. “When you found me in the darkness, dancing, then you knew your place in this. As for mine, I will tell you in my time. The god is in us, Vortka. Let it guide you, let it fill you with its desires. Go back to your godhouse. Forget Abajai and Yagji, they are gone to hell. They are devoured by demons for their sins.” And she was devoured by the god. She is far beyond me already, he realized, standing.What will become of us as she grows in her power? Why has the god chosen her? What is her purpose? What is mine, that I know this about her? He had no answers. He returned to the godhouse, to ask the god. The god did not tell him. He must wait, and see. Raklion let nothing show on his face when Nagarak came down from the godhouse after highsun sacrifice to tell him of the two dead Traders. He said, “You are certain it was godsmite? It could be plague, returned to plague us. Pestilence sleeps in the sand and soil of Mijak, not long ago these Traders traveled the length and breadth of the land. Who knows what contagion they brought home with them on the soles of their shoes?” Nagarak would never sit when in his warlord’s private chamber, he paced within its confines, he was a restless man. “I am high godspeaker, yet you ask if I am certain?” Raklion raised one hand in brief apology. In his chest his heart beat hard. They died of godsmite?Hekat . . . Hekat . . . what have you done ? “Explain this, Nagarak. Why would the god smite these Traders, do you know? Has it told you?” The merest hesitation in Nagarak’s stamping stride, the slightest flicker of his eyes. “Some godspeaker business is not for discussion outside the godhouse. If these deaths have meaning beyond the sinful lives of the dead I will tell you, warlord. More than that you need not know.” He knew Nagarak, now.He cannot answer. The god has not told him why the Traders died . Relief and pleasure mingled hotly. It was a clear sign the god wanted Hekat safe.She is a knife-dancer yet the

Traders died by godsmite. How could that be, god? Hekat, who are you? Nagarak stamped to a standstill. “I am here in your palace, I will see Et-Nogolor’s Daughter. Your son ripens in her, I would lay hands on her belly and feel his strength. Take me to her, warlord. I would—” Knuckles rapped on the door, then his personal slave entered. “Warlord, forgive me. Hanochek warleader would speak with you on urgent warhost business.” Raklion nodded. “I will see him. Escort Nagarak high godspeaker to the Women’s Chambers, he would see the Daughter and her growing belly. Nagarak, you honor me with your presence and word of that other matter. You will see me in the godhouse at lowsun, for sacrifice.” “Lowsun,” said Nagarak, and departed with the slave. Hanochek entered on the heels of their leaving, he looked harried and tense. “Raklion, I wish you would listen to me with your head and not your heart,” he said, throwing himself into the nearest empty chair. “I tell you something must be done, no matter how you feel for the girl, no matter her skill on the Plain of Drokar.” Hekat, again. Raklion sighed and leaned his elbows on his wooden desk. “Tell me, Hano. What must be done, and why?” Hano chewed the end of one godbraid, a boy’s bad habit he had never outgrown. “She slew Bajadek warlord, I do not quarrel with that. But there are fools in the warhost who would make eyes at her for doing her duty, for wielding her snakeblade no better or worse than any warrior of Et-Raklion. It bodes badly for discipline, warlord. She is one of ten thousand, not one alone.” He frowned. “She flaunts Bajadek’s slaying? I have not seen it.” “No,” said Hano, irritably shifting. “She does not flaunt it, it is flaunted by others. They see her, they flaunt it, they praise her, I tell you it means trouble.” It was a fair observation. One thing for his warriors to revere an older, seasoned fighter. But a girl barely out of childhood who, according to Hano, kept herself apart and mysterious? As his warleader said, such adoration could only mean trouble, and trouble in the barracks would be told to Nagarak by his godspeakers. He would pay attention to Hekat as the cause of that trouble, he would notice her. Ask questions. He did not want Nagarak noticing Hekat. “You are right, Hano,” he said. “The Plain of Drokar was one battle, it is over. Send Hekat’s shell into the wilderness for training. Send Arakun shell-leader’s shell with them so they can skirmish together.” He tapped a finger against his chin, warming to the idea even as it chilled him. Training in the wilderness was no easy business, warriors died in training.God, keep her safe . “Send them to train along the border with Et-Banotaj. Bajadek’s whelp has been silent since Drokar but that might change with the changing wind. And even if he does not think to bark, knowing my warriors dance on his doorstep he will think twice before clearing his throat.” Pleased, Hanochek stood and pressed a fist to his heart. “Warlord, it will be done. How long should the shells remain in the wilderness?”

Raklion took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Send them out for three godmoons, Hano. That should be long enough for Drokar to fade. In that time let the knife-dancers live off the land, let them toughen their sinews and harden their bones. Three godmoons. No longer.” Hano nodded. “It is the right decision, Raklion.” “Yes. It is right.” Right, but not easy. He smiled at Hano and watched him leave. His heart was heavy, it was a cruel thing to be a warlord. God, keep her safe. Hekat laughed when she learned she was to train in the wilderness. She was tired of the barracks and being stared at, of pretending to fight tamely on the knife-dance field. Warriors were born for battle,she was born for battle, she knew that now as she knew her own name. In battle she felt herself close to the god, its fury boiled within her, she burned with its power. Skirmishing along the Et-Banotaj border was as close to battle as they could get for the moment . . . and if the god was pleased with her, it might send her enemies to slay. Send me enemies, god. I would worship you with my knife. The night before her shell and Arakun’s were to leave for the wilderness they attended a great sacrifice on the warhost field. Vortka was one of the godspeakers present, when it was over they spoke swiftly, in shadows. “Nobody in the godhouse knows about you and the Traders,” he whispered. “Not even Nagarak. Your secret is safe.” “Of course it is safe,” she whispered back. “Nothing is known if the god wishes it unknown.” He sighed at her sharply, he did not like it when she spoke for the god. “They say skirmishing is dangerous, Hekat. You should be careful in the wilderness.” “I will be Hekat,” she retorted. “I am in the god’s eye, no harm can come to me.” “So bold, so proud,” he said. “If I spoke like that I would be caned for two fingers without stopping!” She shrugged. “You are a godspeaker, that is your life. I am a warrior, chosen by the god. No man dares cane me, any man who tried I would kiss him with my snakeblade.” “Or smite him with your scorpion?” said Vortka, then looked sorry he’d mentioned it. “No,” she said, fingers brushing her amulet. “That is not my business, that is for the god to say. You should not talk of my scorpion, Vortka. It would be better if you forgot it.” “I wish I could!” he said. The whites of his eyes shone in the faint, distant firelight. “Hekat, did you know your scorpion and Nagarak’s are carved from the same stone? Black, with gold and crimson flecks. That is special stone, meant only for high godspeakers. How is your amulet made from it? Where did it come from?”

She did not want to tell him, that could make trouble she did not need. “I do not know. It was a gift.” A kind of truth, not quite a lie. “Ah,” said Vortka. “Then perhaps the god smote the Traders for dealing in the sacred stone.” There was no harm in letting him believe that. “Perhaps.” “Well, never let Nagarak see it closely. He will recognize that stone, he will not be pleased.” She did not care about Nagarak, she was in the god’s eye. “I must go, Vortka,” she said, as the rest of her shell-mates started drifting from the warhost field. “We are gone three godmoons. I will see you after that.” She left him in the shadows, standing alone. After next newsun’s sacrifice she rode out of the barracks with a godspeaker, her shell-leader Tajria and her shell-mates, and the other knife-dance shell led by Arakun. They rode away from the city and into Et-Raklion’s hungry wild wilderness. Hanochek warleader wished them well as they departed. Raklion warlord did not come down from his palace, Hanochek spoke for him. It was not the same. When at last they reached the wilderness along the border with Et-Banotaj they wasted no time, they skirmished every moment between newsun and lowsun sacrifices, in darkness and in light. They lived off the land, hunting game and wild birds. Barracks life became a memory, a dream half-forgotten. Hekat danced joyfully with her snakeblade, listening to the god whisper in her heart. She never thought of Vortka, and paid scant attention to the other warriors. Her life was the god and knife-dancing. Nothing else mattered. They saw no sign of Et-Banotaj warriors, slain Bajadek’s son kept his teeth behind his lips. The days passed swiftly, Hekat did not count them. The godspeaker counted them, that was her task. One godmoon. Two godmoons. Three godmoons worth of days. Then it was time to return to the city. The godspeaker was a scrawny thing and would never make a knife-dancer, but she had a neat way with a sacrifice blade. As newsun’s pale light filtered through high and insubstantial cloud she cut out the last godhouse dove’s beating heart and pulped it between her fingers. Blood splattered on the black slate altar brought with her from Et-Raklion’s distant godhouse. When the heart was wrung dry she pushed it into her mouth, then tossed the dead bird into the air. It caught fire and vanished in smoke; she chewed and chewed and chewed and swallowed, then hunkered down to read the god in the scattered dots of dove’s blood on the altar. Kneeling silent with her fellow warriors, Hekat closed her eyes and let the growing light warm her face. She had come to love the wilderness, she would miss its open sky when they were once more in the barracks. Six warriors had fallen in their time of skirmishing here. They did not dance fast enough and the god blew out their godsparks. Their flesh was ash now, it was sealed into clay jars for the journey home. Two of those warriors had fallen to her snakeblade, she was not sorry. They had failed the god, they paid the price. The godspeaker finished her divination and rose from her crouch. “The god says you have trained well,

warriors. You may return with honor to Et-Raklion city.” A ripple of released tension sighed through the other gathered warriors. Three godmoons in the wilderness was a long time. No bathing house, no comfortable camp-beds, no rich fat goat and lamb to eat, no wine or ale or sadsa for drinking, no godhouse vessels for the easing of lust. Blood and dirt and sore, pulled muscles, cracked bones, split flesh, hot days, cold nights and hard ground to sleep on, plain water and dry, stringy meat, that was training in the wilderness. Hekat knew the other knife-dancers were glad their wilderness time was over. Even Tajria and Arakun shell-leaders were glad. She despised them for it. Soft pampered warriors could not serve the god. They should give it thanks for these three hard godmoons. If I were in charge of them, I would make them give thanks. In your time, god, put me in charge of them. I will teach them what true service is. Her divining completed, the godspeaker said, “The god desires we ride the border with Et-Banotaj for three fingers, then turn inwards and travel home through the Teeth.” Tajria shell-leader stood and bowed. “We hear the god and obey its desires.” She clapped her hands. “On your feet, knife-dancers. We eat and break camp, no time to waste!” Less than a finger later they left their desolate training ground, bound at last for Et-Raklion city. The open country along the border had little use beyond being a space that was not Et-Banotaj. The feral goats and stunted cattle they hunted for food roamed there, descendants of beasts escaped from holdings further inland where the grass grew green. Shy, elusive, they haunted the sparse waterholes and hid themselves in the spindly undergrowth as the knife-dancers and the godspeaker’s mule-cart clattered by. The god’s desire that they ride the border a distance before turning towards Et-Raklion on its surface made no sense, but of course they did not question. It wasn’t until they were half a finger from turning inland again to traverse the Teeth that Hekat felt a sudden stirring, a tickle in the back of her mind she had come to recognize was a prompting from the god. Moments later they crested a rise and met with a band of raiding warriors, crossed over the border to steal Raklion warlord’s goats and cattle. Some were warriors of Et-Banotaj, others wore the lizard-mark of Et-Takona and the horse-head badge of Et-Zyden. Hekat guessed there were perhaps fifty of them. Now became clear the godspeaker’s divining. Now the god’s purpose was revealed. “Aieee-aieee-aieee!” she howled, and plunged with the others into attack. The raided goats and cattle fled, the warriors from Et-Banotaj and Et-Takona and Et-Zyden spun their horses and tried to escape. After three godmoons training, fighting in earnest was a potent release. Hekat, laughing, hamstrung Et-Banotaj horses and their riders, slit Et-Takona and Et-Zyden throats. It was close-quarters fighting, no arrows or slingshots, just bright flashing snakeblades drinking enemy blood. Demonspawn that they were for daring to cross the border into Et-Raklion and take what did not belong to them, the raiding warriors did not die meekly, they hacked and slashed Raklion warlord’s knife-dancers. Their sharp knives cut her, she did not feel the wounds. She was fighting for the god and Raklion warlord. The hot air was shrill with shrieks and shouting, soaked in blood and smells of death. The godspeaker stood on the seat of her mule-cart, exhorting Raklion’s warriors at the top of her voice. They answered

her with their sharp snakeblades, slaughtering the enemy and screaming Raklion’s name, they shook their godbraids even though in the wilderness they wore no godbells. It did not matter, godbells sang in their hearts. When the last raiding warriors were dead and dying on the ground, Tajria slid from her horse and walked with Arakun shell-leader and the godspeaker among the fallen. She and Arakun slit the throats of their still-living enemies and, weeping, sent to the god five Et-Raklion warriors the godspeaker said could not be healed. Then they put down the horses too wounded for travel, all save one. No Et-Raklion horses had died in the battle, Hekat saw Tajria smile at that. Fajik horse-master would be pleased, and Hanochek warleader who doted on the beasts. On Arakun’s signal ten knife-dancers skinned the dead horses, their hides would be cured for breeches and the barracks victory wall. Last of all Tajria stripped the leather breastplates from three dead enemy warriors so she might show Raklion warlord who had ridden against them. Her eyes were narrowed as she stared at those breastplates, the woodcat, the lizard, the fiery horse-head. Hekat, watching, feeling at last the hot pain of her knife-wounds, did not blame Tajria shell-leader for that unhappy frown. In her heart she heard the god whisper, she saw dark shadows crawling beneath the sun. This raid is a warning. Trouble stirs in Mijak, for Raklion warlord and for us all. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The thieving demonspawn warriors of Et-Banotaj, Et-Takona and Et-Zyden deserved no sanctified pyres, they did not fall in honorable battle. They were left for the crows with their skinned dead horses. Et-Raklion’s five dead were piled with the rolled hides into the godspeaker’s mule-cart for proper burning in the godhouse. They would reach the city late that night, the corpses would not rot before then. Eight knife-dancers were wounded more than cuts and bruises. The godspeaker healed them enough for riding and they were tied to their horses, the reins handed over to another warrior so they could safely be led. Hekat bound her slashed arm and thigh with strips of linen torn from her spare tunic, she needed no healing. She dedicated her pain to the god, kissing the scorpion round her neck. Its power trembled, she breathed its glory. Those knife-dancers closest to Et-Raklion’s fallen wept and cut their own flesh with their snakeblades. Hekat watched them grieve, unmoved. If they were dead it was their time, what use weeping and gnashing of teeth? Tajria and Arakun knelt with the godspeaker to thank the god for their victory. The godspeaker sacrificed the last injured horse, kept alive for that purpose. Then it was time to ride for the Teeth, and after that Et-Raklion city. The Teeth were a series of craggy rises and sharp ravines separating Et-Raklion’s rich farming lands from its scarce-watered wilderness. Enormous care was required riding through them, a shouted voice could start rocks lethally sliding, a careless horse could break its leg. The knife-dancers and the godspeaker in her burdened mule-cart minded their manners as they trod lightly through them, they held their tongues, they barely breathed. The Teeth were dangerous, but it was their fastest way back to the city. Highsun passed. Lowsun approached. The Teeth did not bite them, they climbed at last over their sharp dry lip into the fat green pasturelands of Et-Raklion, where the underground rivers showed themselves to the sky and the grain grew plump and comely in the fields.

It was not so far to the city now. Hekat rolled her head upon her shoulders to ease the aching in her neck. Horses were tiresome, she would much prefer to run but warriors must ride, it was the word of the warlord, tchut tchut, complain aloud and earn a striping. Safely past the danger of rockslides, the warriors around her began to talk once more, to relive the battle so neatly survived, to reminisce with stories of those who had fallen, to tell jokes and announce, crudely, which vessel would service them on return to the barracks. Some arguments grew out of those claimings, but only with words. No blades were drawn. Mindful of Tajria and Arakun they satisfied themselves with insults and promises. Not one of the knife-dancers spoke to Hekat, nor she to any one of them. They hardly ever spoke to her, she was not lonely. Who could be lonely when filled with the god? The sun sank below the horizon. Dusk deepened into night. The godmoon was in the waning phase, his wife hid demurely in his shadow. Tajria ordered the torches lit, they traveled home in a flickering of light. Three fingers after the godmoon’s thin rising, they reached the city. The barracks’ main gates were thrown wide for them, and they rode to the stables. Amid the jostle and bustle of stable-slaves attending the horses, and the busyness of other warriors coming to greet them and make a noise, the skinned horsehides and those three bloodied enemy breastplates were taken from the mule-cart. Then the godspeaker drove it to the barracks godspeakers, so they might prepare for the ritual cremations of Et-Raklion’s fallen. “Hekat,” said Tajria, raising her voice. “Attend me.” Hekat threw her reins to a slave and attended her. “Yes, shell-leader?” “Find Hanochek warleader. Tell him Arakun and I would like to have private words.” Of course. Hanochek must be told of the raid and the breastplates that warned of trouble. Hekat pressed her fist to her heart, acknowledging Tajria’s command, and made her way out of the crowded stables, through the woken barracks, dancing around more curious warriors, goggling slaves and scuttling, sniffing barracks dogs. She hated those dogs. She hated all dogs, she would gladly see every last one dead. Hanochek warleader lived in the barracks, he had private quarters beside the warhost field. “Hanochek warleader is not here,” his servant told her. “He dines with the warlord in his palace.” Aieee, the god see her. Such a long way to run for a tired knife-dancer. Hekat sighed and jogged back to the stables, she took a fresh horse and rode it bareback in its halter, out of the barracks and up the road to Raklion’s palace. It was a beautiful building, terraced balconied chambers hugging the side of Raklion’s Pinnacle. The walls were sandstone, great blocks of ochre and salt-white and cream like new butter, each section of sloping roof a dazzle of glazed tiles in red and green and blue and gold. It was pocked with gardens, riddled with tall hedges, lit like highsun with countless flaming torches. Splendidly dressed slaves stood at every entering pathway, no-one could visit here without drawing attention. Not unless the god hid them deep in its eye.

The slave at attention beside the main palace gates saw she was a warrior and did not challenge her entry. In the palace’s paved forecourt an outdoors slave took the horse from her, an indoors slave admitted her to Raklion’s empty audience chamber. It was a cool and glossy place, as the rest of the palace she had walked through was cool and glossy, not fussy like Abajai’s villa, larded with trinkets to boast of wealth. Raklion’s palace was plain, austere. Hekat approved. The only decoration a warrior needed was a snakeblade. The warlord came to her soon after she arrived, with Hanochek warleader by his side. She thought he had aged since last she saw him, the night Abajai and Yagji came to kill her. His eyes were sunk deeper now, his godbraids were heavily silvered. Deeper lines were carved in his face. “Hekat!” he said. He was startled. “You are wounded. What has happened?” Wounded? She glanced at the linen strips binding arm and thigh, she had forgotten the knife-cuts earned in the border skirmish. She pressed her fist against her heart, to him, to Hanochek. “Warlord, I am sent by Tajria shell-leader to speak with Hanochek warleader. We are returned from the wilderness with a tale to tell.” “So it seems,” said Hanochek. “What has happened that could not wait until newsun for its telling?” As she hesitated, Raklion said, “Speak, Hekat. You are here, not Tajria. I wish you to answer.” Hekat nodded. “As we returned from the wilderness, warlord, we skirmished with raiding warriors from Et-Banotaj, Et-Zyden and Et-Takona. They rode together but are dead in the dirt now, the god sent them to hell.” She smiled. “With our help.” Cold silence. Torchlight, dancing. Words unspoken, weighing on the air, as the warlord and his warleader stared at each other. Raklion said, “What did they raid for?” “Meat, warlord. They were stealing our wild beasts.” Another look between the two men. “The warlords grow reckless,” Raklion murmured. “Hekat, what of my warriors?” “Five fell in the skirmish, warlord. Six more died in training.” She straightened her aching body. “Warlord?” “Return to the barracks. Tell Tajria shell-leader her message is given. Tell her also the warleader and I will hear the full story of Banotaj’s raid after newsun sacrifice and the rites for our dead.” “Yes, warlord.” His stern face softened. “And be certain to have your hurts in my service healed.” “Yes, warlord.” His nod dismissed her. As she left the palace to ride tired and bareback to the barracks, she felt her stone scorpion hot against her skin. It is a warning. I think the god will have need of me, soon.

Raklion paced his audience chamber, his warm pleasure in good food and sweet wine and Hano’s company turned sour and restless in his gut. Not even a brief moment with glorious Hekat could ease the foreboding in his heart. “I do not like this, Hano. I fear this one raid is but the beginning. With Mijak growing browner by the godmoon, with Et-Raklion remaining fat and green, we tempt the other warlords to make alliances based on blood and stealing. I think if the browning does not stop our ten thousand warriors will not be enough.” Hano leaned his shoulder against the stone wall. “I fear your warleader must disagree, Raklion. We are in no danger. Banotaj is the one who should worry, he is a fool to think he can keep Zyden and Takona appeased with a few stolen Et-Raklion goats. They ride with him not to raid us in earnest but to testhis strength, they wish to seehis warriors fight and taste their mettle. When they are satisfied he is not the equal of his father they will swallow him whole and spit out his bones. They will rideagainst him, not beside him. They will be too busy to dare threaten us.” “Perhaps so, Hano, for now,” Raklion said, unconvinced. “But they will not be busy against Banotaj forever. You know what the Traders and godspeakers tell me. Beyond Et-Raklion’s borders scarce rain grows scarcer. Crops are thinner in the fields. Waterholes shrink, rivers dwindle. Jokriel surrenders more land to the savage north, he fights with Mamiklia while Mamiklia raids Takona. Takona raided Zyden before joining him to raid with Banotaj. I tell you, Mijak becomes a bloodied carcass.” “Not all of Mijak,” Hano insisted. “It is not a desert yet. And while the other warlords tear at each other we can strengthen our borders. Increase our warhost. We will survive until Mijak turns green again.” “Aieee, Hano.Think !” Raklion retorted, and fisted his hands. “We are facing a time of change. With Nogolor beside us, with his warhost and ours, we could withstand the other five warlords. But Nogolor is old, he is failing, his son Tebek will be warlord soon. Tebek looks at Et-Raklion’s fat horses, he counts the ribs of the stallion he rides. When his father dies I fear our alliance will die with him. Then what will happen? Will Tebek risk his warriors against us alone, or instead make his peace with Banotaj or Mamiklia or one of the others so they together can turn on us?” He stopped pacing and glared at his friend. “Hano, you have seen starving dogs fight for a single bone, youknow what could happen. Do not seek to soothe me with platitudes and lies!” Hano pushed away from the wall, his eyes were hurt. “I have never lied to you, Raklion. I do not lie now. I agree we must keep close watch on the other warlords. That is why we have Eyes, we will send them to look hard at Et-Raklion’s borders. But you must not give yourself over to bleakness. Et-Raklion is great, it is blessed by the god, and Mijak cannot stay brown forever. Trouble will pass, like a cloud across the sun.” “How do you know Mijak cannot stay brown?” Raklion demanded. “Ido not know that. For all I know, Hano, it will stay brown forever.” It was a fearsome thought. Hano said, faltering, “I cannot believe that. DoesNagarak say Mijak will stay brown?” Raklion turned away. “If Nagarak knows, he does not tell me.” “Ifhe knows?” said Hano, in the taut silence. “What is this, Raklion? Do you say he doesn’t?”

Aieee, his fears rode his tongue, he should not have said that. He turned back. “No. I mis-spoke myself. Pay no attention.” “Tcha!” said Hanochek. “And you chideme for platitudes and lies.” “Hanochek!” Hano flinched but did not retreat. “Raklion, I am your warleader and your friend, but how can I help you if you hide your heart? Is there more to your misgivings than you’ve told? Do you know something of Nagarak you haven’t shared?” Aieee, there was more, but not to do with Nagarak. What terrified him was that voice in his heart whispering louder, ever louder:the only way to save Et-Raklion from the other warlords is to smite them before they ride against me, to tame them utterly into the dust, to make myself Mijak’s only warlord . How else could he save Et-Raklion from death? Beg his brother warlords to leave him alone? Was that the strength of a warlord? Was that how he protected his people, kept his promise to the god? “Raklion, what is it?” said Hano softly. “You stand there as if a demon turned you to stone. Let me help you, what else am I for?” Shaking his head, Raklion sat in his warlord’s chair. He could not burden Hano with his heart’s sinful secret. Hano would risk the god’s wrath to see it come true.Raklion warlord, warlord of Mijak . With an effort, he smiled. “You were right, my friend. I let myself become bleak, it is not helpful.” Hano knew him too well. “Tcha, you do not blind me.Is it Nagarak, Raklion? Does he—” The chamber door burst open then, and a slave rushed in shouting. “Warlord! Warlord! You must come at once!” It was the gelding Sabat from the Women’s Chambers. His yellow-brown skin was sickly with horror, his staring eyes awash with tears. As Hanochek took an angry step towards the slave, Raklion pushed slowly to his feet. All the world was still and silent, the only sound his beating heart. The gelding Sabat fell face down on the floor, his flabby, half-naked body shuddering like a man filled with fever. “Speak,” said Raklion, though he knew already what the slave would say. “Forgive me, warlord,” the gelding choked out. “It is Et-Nogolor’s Daughter.” Hano had moved to stand again at Raklion’s shoulder, war-calloused palm and fingers gripping tight. It was hard to feel him. Hard to feel anything beyond hell’s cold wind. “Show me,” he said to the gelding Sabat. The slave heaved to his feet and bowed out backwards, hands pressed in entreaty to his womanish breast. “Warlord?” said Hano, releasing his grip. Raklion turned, looked over his shoulder. “Come with me, Hano. I cannot bear this alone.”

“Of course,” said Hano. “Warlord, lead the way.” The Daughter was dead, and her baby with her. Their blood soaked the bedsheets and pooled on the tiled floor. A snakeblade’s hilt jutted between her ribs. The dead child’s throat was cut to the bone, its lifeless body still yoked to its mother by the flaccid umbilical cord. It was a boy. It had no eyes. “Why?”said Hano beside him, his whisper incredulous. “How could this happen? Did she fuck with a demon when your back was turned?” Raklion came close to striking Hano, then. Hano knew it, and retreated. The gelding Sabat bowed his head. “Warlord, we did not know she was in labor. After her supper she dismissed her slaves and retired. She gave no sign that anything was wrong.” The chamber reeked of blood and death. Raklion nodded, hearing the slave’s words as though they traveled from beyond Mijak’s distant borders. “Fetch her slaves without delay.” The gelding bowed and withdrew. As he waited for the Daughter’s attendants, Raklion gazed upon his son. A delicate skull capped in drying black curls. Long limbs. Slender fingers. Beneath the smearing mucus, light skin hinting at a glossy darkness to come. If he’d had eyes, he would have been beautiful. “Warlord, I grieve with you,” said Hano, weeping. He nodded, but could not speak. He had no tears, his heart was a desert. The gelding returned with the Daughter’s slaves. Ten in all, the youngest a girl of six or seven. Raklion ordered them to kneel. He pulled the snakeblade from the Daughter’s flesh and killed them, one by one he watered his heart’s desert with the blood of the sinners who had failed his son. He killed the gelding Sabat last of all, and not as swiftly as he’d killed the others. Done with that, leaving Hanochek to stand guard over the corpses, he walked alone, daubed with scarlet, up Raklion’s Pinnacle to the godhouse, to Nagarak, who must answer for this terrible thing. The bloodied snakeblade was still in his fist. It was late but Nagarak was waking, seated cross-legged before the altar in his most private sanctum, whose scented air only he and the warlord were permitted to breathe. Carved jet scorpions climbed the walls, emerald and crimson snakes decorated each flat surface. “Are you high godspeaker,” Raklion demanded, framed in the doorway of that sacred room, “or some hell-escaped demon tasked to plague me?” Nagarak wore a loincloth and his scorpion pectoral. Its black highlights gleamed as his thin chest rose and fell. “You bring a knife into this place? You tempt the god to a great smiting, Raklion.” He threw the blood-clotted blade to the floor. “My son isdead , Nagarak! Slain by the Daughter. He was abominate, he was born withouteyes . What else could she do but slit his throat? She is dead too,

she killed herself after.” He took one step towards the silent high godspeaker, then collapsed disjointed as his muscles and sinews undid themselves. “How has this happened? If you are high godspeaker you must know! Or are you deaf to the god, Nagarak? Is your power drained into the dirt? Have your eyes been blinded to the omens in the entrails, the clouds, the tracks of scorpions in the dust? How could you let a demon deform him?You said I would have a living son !” Like a striking snake Nagarak rose to his bare feet. His polished face was raw with anger, he loomed like the god’s wrath with his fist raised high. “You chastiseme , warlord? The god desired you sire a son. If that son is thwarted, look to yourself! What seed of sin is rooted in your heart, that has led to this grim flowering? What have you done, that the god would smite you so?” Bruised and aching, Raklion stared up at him. “You tell me thegod took my son’s eyes?” “I tell you Et-Nogolor’s Daughter was surrounded by every amulet, every charm, every chanting this godhouse could devise!” said Nagarak. “Every day five pure white lambs given to the altar, their blood drained and fed to her by sanctified hands! No demon insinuated itself in the Women’s Chambers, warlord. You are smitten by the god for an evil in your heart.” “There is no evil in my heart,” he whispered. “Every day I make offerings to the god, I attend a sacrifice, I open my heart to the god’s desires.” “Yet Et-Nogolor’s Daughter lies cold and stiffening and your blind son is carrion for the crows.” Leaning down, Nagarak thrust his furious face close. His breath was hot with blood and cloves. “There must be a secret sin. What demon writhes beneath your skin that you can hide such a truth from me?” Sickened with sudden fear Raklion retreated from Nagarak’s burning glare. “You call your warlord demonstruck ? The god should kill me here and now if this is a true thing!” He tipped back his head to stare at the ceiling’s mosaiced frieze of spitting snakes and stinging scorpions. “Kill me now, god, strike me dead if I nurse a demon!” The god spared him. “You see?” he demanded. “I nurse no demon! Raklion warlord isnot demonstruck!” Nagarak straightened. “Not demonstruck,” he admitted, grudging. “So it is a sin. Name it, warlord.” Raklion smoothed his face with trembling hands. His fingers tangled in his godbraids, his godbells chimed like weeping doves. He knew his sin, he could not speak it. Raklion warlord, warlord of Mijak. “I see the shifting in your face, warlord,” said Nagarak harshly. “You sift your thoughts and deeds like a miller sifts his flour, searching for unwanted husks and stones. Open your mouth. Let the words fall from your tongue. I am your miller, warlord,I will sift you.” Raklion looked dully at the tiled floor.I must tell him, I must tell him. Only he can save me from myself . “Nagarak . . .” He touched a fingertip to the high godspeaker’s foot. “I dream of a Mijak made whole beneath the sky. Not seven warlords but one alone, obedient to the god and warlord to all men. When the stars were young, when the godmoon’s aged wife was a girlish bride, Mijak was a whole land

ruled by one warlord, fat and green and known to the world. Mijak—” “Silence!” hissed Nagarak. His scorpion pectoral shivered with shadows, it came to life in the chamber’s dim lighting. “You sinning man, you defier of the god! Those days aredead , Raklion. The god killed them in its eye and has forbade the men of Mijak crossing over its borders or kneeling to a single warlord upon a golden throne. Woe to he who would see the sun rise again upon those dark times.This is the secret sin in your heart? That you would be the warlord of Mijak? Aieee, it is a black sin, a sin to smite the god itself!” From somewhere unknown, in the face of his high godspeaker’s fury, Raklion found the courage to speak. “Nagarak, Nagarak, what else can I do but dream of this? The ravenous warlords stare at my green lands and their high godspeakers urge them to raiding. If I do not stop them they will overrun us and strip the meat from our bleeding bones. Et-Raklion will die if I do not stop them, and I fear Mijak will die not long after that. I cannot sit idle and watch that happen, I must prevent it.Not to prevent it would be the black sin.” “You are the warlord, you are not the god,” said Nagarak, his voice a smiting. “The god will prevent it in its time, a time of its choosing with an instrument of its desire.” Beyond Nagarak’s chamber, the tolling of a godhouse bell. On a shuddering breath, Raklion sat up. The Daughter was dead, his son was dead with her. What more in the world did he have to lose? “Nagarak . . . high godspeaker . . . what ifI am that instrument?” CHAPTER NINETEEN You?”The high godspeaker’s hooded eyes stared with disdain. “Raklion, you are nothing if the god does not tell me otherwise. It has not named you an instrument to me. It has killed the field and the seeds you planted there, that is your message from the god.” Unbidden tears rose in Raklion’s eyes. “Then why am I still warlord, Nagarak? Why did the god not allow Bajadek to kill me? How can I have these thoughts and live if the god does not desire them of me?” Nagarak said nothing, his fingers caressed his scorpion pectoral and his eyes communed with shadows. “Perhaps in thinking them Ido obey the god,” Raklion whispered. “Perhaps these thoughts are its voice in my heart. Perhaps I am punished because I do not act. Mijak bleeds but I do not staunch its wounds!” Nagarak stared down at him, his caressing fingers turned to fists. “I am high godspeaker,” he said at last. “Such desires of the god would first be revealed to me.” “You are high godspeaker but I am warlord. Warriors’ business is my business, Nagarak. In matters of war the god speaks to me in my heart.” Joint by joint, Nagarak’s fingers unfisted themselves. “It . . . is an explanation.” “Nagarak, I am not wrong about Et-Raklion’s fate if the other warlords are left unchecked.” “No,” said Nagarak. “You are not wrong.” “They will steal my lands if the browning continues. Will it?”

In Nagarak’s face, a riot of thoughts. Then he nodded. “I think it will.” “Youthink ?” “The omens are conflicting!” said Nagarak, goaded. “The truth hides in shadows.” It was the closest Nagarak had ever come to admitting ignorance. Raklion sat up, slowly. “I cannot stand against six raiding warhosts. And where Et-Raklion falls all of Mijakwill follow, Iknow this, Nagarak. The god tells me so.” Nagarak frowned fiercely. “It is . . .possible . . . these thoughts come from the god. They could also have been sent by a demon, nourished in your ambitious heart.” “I amnot ambitious. These thoughts frighten me, Nagarak.” “As well they should!” said Nagarak, and turned to pace his private chamber. “One thing is clear, Raklion: you are a flagrant sinner. You have sinned in thinking these thoughts of one warlord, or you have sinned in not acting upon them as the god desires.” Raklion nodded, slumping. “And I am punished for it. I have no son, and no warlord bloodline on which to breed one. No warlord will give a daughter to me now. They want to take Et-Raklion for themselves, not help me breed its next fighting warlord.” “You will have a son,” said Nagarak. “I have said so, it will come to pass. But only when your sin is revealed and repented.” Eagerly Raklion regained his feet. “I do repent it, Nagarak. I will stand on the godhouse roof and shout to the sky, I am Raklion warlord, a sinning sinner! I have sinned, I have said so, I weep tears in my remorse.” Nagarak looked at him, cold and stern. “The tears you weep are tears of water. For the god’s absolution you must weep tears of blood.” Shuddering, Raklion bowed his head. Nagarak spoke truly. Without weeping blood his penitence was air, was nothing. Aieee, it was a fearful thought. “You are right, high godspeaker. Water remorse is not sufficient. I am the warlord, a man of deeds.” “Through me, Raklion, the god will write on your flesh with a heavy hand,” said Nagarak. His tone was a warning. “I will not spare you, though you are the warlord.” Raklion met his high godspeaker’s obdurate glare. “You must not spare me, Nagarak. The god must know the length and breadth and depth of my sorrow.” Nagarak nodded. “Warlord, it must.” “And after I am punished, and the god knows my true regret, you will sink beneath the surface of the godpool and seek an answer to this mystery. Am I to become the warlord of Mijak?” “That is the question I must ask,” said Nagarak, slowly. “But not in the godpool. In the scorpion pit.”

Thescorpion pit? “Nagarak, men die in the scorpion pit.” Nagarak smiled. “Warlord, if you strive to make yourself warlord of Mijak you will fail without me by your side. Therefore in your striving so do I strive, to be Mijak’s high godspeaker, its voice for the god. That too was forbidden in the dark past. If I support you I support myself. Therefore I must ask the god in the scorpion pit, baring myself to its killing eye.” Raklion shook his head. “No. I forbid it. This sin is mine, you will not pay the price.” “It is not for you to forbid a high godspeaker! This is the god’s business, it falls upon me! There can be no gain without risk.” Gain? “Youwish to be Mijak’s one high godspeaker?” he asked, shocked. Nagarak turned away. “I wish the god’s true voice to be heard in Mijak. I wish for an end to untrue high godspeakers.” “You think you are true and your brothers are false?” Still Nagarak would not look at him. “I think there is a reason why Et-Raklion stays green and fat, while the rest of Mijak turns dirt brown and thin.” He is ambitious. I never knew it. “Nagarak, if you must face the god’s scorpions, then so be it. As I weep for my sin against the god I will pray that it knows you are its true godspeaker.” He swallowed. “When will that be, Nagarak? When do I weep?” Nagarak turned back to him, a hint of warmth in his merciless face. “Raklion warlord, it is known there is nothing gained by delaying a thing that must come to pass. You have sinned and must be punished. Come with me now, and weep your sorrow to the god.” Raklion nodded. On the slopes of the Pinnacle, in the heart of his warlord palace, his son’s small body spoiled before its time. If ever he was to see the birth of a living son he had no choice but to follow Nagarak. “You speak the truth. Take me, high godspeaker, and learn how much I love the god.” In silence Nagarak pulled on a robe, then led him from the quiet room, down stairs and more stairs, past closed chambers echoing with chanted prayer, past novices sweeping the godhouse’s public places, past city supplicants praying before its altars, through open gardens and along cold corridors of stone. Not a witness to his passing spoke a single word but all eyes followed and there was dread in their gaze, as though the truth were a trail of smoke that could be seen by anyone in the god’s eye. A clutch of chambers apart from the main godhouse was given over to the god’s severe taskmasters. Following Nagarak through the night, across an open courtyard to that terrible place, Raklion heard the stinging slap of leather against bared flesh, the harder crack of birch, the sobbing sighs of men and women in supplication to the god. Through half-open doors he glimpsed private penitence, devout despairing, wholehearted misery in the pursuit of purity. Mijak’s god demanded contrition, and in this place contrition ruled with whip and cane, it hungered for tears, it drank them like nectar. The godmoon and his wife still walked the starred sky, yet nearly every tasking room was full. The godspeakers of Et-Raklion were perfect in their bloodsoaked piety.

Raklion pitied them as he loved them, as he witnessed their suffering while passing them by. He was here to join them, to become their lowly brother, to weep out his own sins as they wept out theirs. One dark room waited for him. Nagarak led him within it, and closed the door. No words were needed in this place. Raklion was silent as he shed his fine linen tunic and his sandals trimmed with gold, as his high godspeaker lit a single lamp, as his wrists and ankles were bound with leather to the cold iron scorpion wheel. I am here, god. I am penitent. Drink my tears and swallow my cries. Do what you will, for as long as you must, write on my flesh all the way to the bone. Know I am sorry, answer my prayer. Help me save Mijak. Grant me a son. In the last gasp of darkness before newsun, Hekat stood on the warhost field with Et-Raklion’s warriors and watched the pyres of the fallen burn to ash. Raklion did not watch with them, neither did his warleader Hanochek. The pyres were lit by Tajria and Arakun shell-leaders, they had waited and waited for Raklion and Hanochek until they could wait no more. The bodies must be burned by the first newsun after death. A godspeaker gave permission for the pyres’ lighting, death was the god’s business. Ritual must be observed. In the darkness around her, Hekat heard whispers.Why was the warlord not with them for this burning? Why did the warleader not appear? Like wind through a wheat field the questions rippled, unease mingling with grief in the smoke from the pyres. After the burning, Tajria took her aside. “You said the warlord said he and Hanochek would come to the barracks. Why did they not come, Hekat? What have you not told me?” Tajria should know better than to talk in a shrill voice, she should know better than to show her fear. “He told me they would come, shell-leader. That is all he told me, that is all I can say.” Tajria dismissed her. She did not report to a godspeaker healer as Raklion wanted, she went to the bath-house and sat in hot water until it turned cold. Then she crawled into her barracks bed to sleep for a finger. After three godmoons in the wilderness her mattress felt like a cloud. It was strange, the warlord and the warleader not coming to the barracks. The scorpion amulet round her neck stayed sleeping, she did not permit herself to worry. The god will tell me if I must fear. Hanochek warleader appeared at highsun sacrifice, he expressed regret that he was not at the burning. “Raklion warlord was taken with a gripe,” he told the warhost. “He weeps for our lost ones, he sees them in the god’s eye.” Hekat thought he was lying, there were shadows in his eyes. Raklion warlord was not sick when she had seen him. After sacrifice Hanochek met with Tajria and Arakun and their knife-dance shells in the meal-barracks, where they talked of Banotaj’s bold, wicked raid. On a bench beside him sat the three bloodied breastplates. As they talked, Hanochek’s face grew grim, his shadowed eyes darkened, his fingers tapped upon his thigh.

“You are proud warriors,” he told them. “I am proud of you, and so is the warlord. You have served him, you have served Et-Raklion. For three highsuns you may take your ease. Guard your tongues on this matter of Et-Banotaj, this is not gossip for the barracks’ camp fires.” Laughing they left him, ready to play. Obedient to Hanochek they held their tongues, it made no difference. Those three bloodied breastplates had been seen in the stables by slaves, by others, the gossip ran wild. Before lowsun sacrifice every warrior in the barracks knew Banotaj was stirring, knew other warlords stirred trouble with him. Like a simmering cook-pot, the barracks seethed. Not interested in playing, kept from reading for three godmoons in the wilderness, Hekat looked to amuse herself with stories. Tired of her small tablet collection, she thought to ask Vortka if he could bring her more from the godhouse. But the godspeaker healer she went to as an excuse to find him did not know where he was. She sighed and let the godspeaker heal her knife wounds then bought two clay tablets from her least favorite pedlar. The stories were stupid but they were something to read. She washed and mended her wilderness tunics, trained a little with the slingshot and bow. She ate round the camp fire after lowsun sacrifice, char-roasted sheep she had killed with one arrow, and rolled her eyes at her shell-mates’ boastings and the eager believing of the newest recruits. They were stupid, she was weary, she went to bed. That was her first highsun at ease in the barracks, she thought two more would drive her mad. She survived them, they were not so bad. She helped Zapotar with some of the new warriors, knife-dancers accepted into the barracks while she trained in the wilderness. She watched theirhotas , she shouted at them when they made mistakes. They knew who she was, someone had told them,She is the warrior who slew Bajadek . They strove to please her, they laughed when she praised them, after their training they dawdled to talk. “How did you kill that Bajadek warlord? Tell us of the battle, Hekat. Tell us what that killing was like!” She did not want to talk about it. “Knife-dancing is for doing, not for gossip.” “Please, Hekat,” they begged her. “We want to dance with our snakeblades like you, beautiful and deadly in the god’s eye.” They were older than she was, every one of them, but they made her feel as old as the god. “I will tell you this much,” she said to them sternly. “If you think to knife-dance foryour glory the enemy you dance with will slit your throat. I did not kill Bajadek warlord. The god killed that sinning man, I was its snakeblade. Dance for the god, warriors. Dance in its eye.” That was not the story they wanted to hear, but she did not care. She was tired of them. Lowsun approached, the warhost attended sacrifice. The warleader stood with them, still Raklion did not come. After sacrifice and the night’s roast goat and chicken, while the others gathered to drink sadsa or sing and dance or disappeared to rut with a vessel, Hekat went to the bath-house to wallow in warm water. Vortka found her there a long time later, prodding at the bath’s hotbricks. “Hekat! I thought you would be here. I am pleased to see you safe home from the wilderness. How went your training?” “Training is training.” She shrugged. “Have you heard of our skirmish?” “Skirmish?” He dropped to the stool beside her tub. His face was still beautiful but now it was haggard, his eyes sunk in hollows. They made him work hard, those godspeakers in the godhouse. “No. I am not

long returned from service beyond the city. For two godmoons I traveled Et-Raklion’s villages with the godspeaker treasurers, counting taxes. I am no longer an initiate novice, I have more responsibilities now.” He nodded at her forearm, where it rested on the side of the tub. “I see you were wounded. Are you in pain?” She looked at the healed knife-cut. “No. It is nothing.” “It has left a scar.” Vortka smiled, a quick twist of his lips. “Warriors like scars, so the healers tell me.” The other warriors certainly did, they boasted with their scars as they boasted with their tongues. Scars were unimportant, they did not impress the god. “It is nothing, I told you. Vortka, has something happened?” He did not answer. The new scorpion shell bound to his brow was brown, and larger than the black one it replaced. There were blue beads in his godbraids, they were not there before, and tiny stone scorpions dangled from his ears. His novice robe looked too large for his bowed shoulders. Something was troubling him. She said, “Have you heard how Raklion is faring? We were told his belly had a gripe, I do not believe that. He was well when I saw him.” The look Vortka gave her was almost unfriendly. “The god has not told you? Aieee, perhaps you are not so special after all.” His fingers held tightly to his knees. He was frightened, he was worried, she could read him like the simplest clay tablet. She sat up straighter, so her breasts came out of the water. That did not matter, she was not a woman to him. “Why would you say that? How have I hurt you, that you would use your tongue as a knife? Do you think I need another scar?” “I should not have come here,” he said, shaking his head. “I am not supposed to know these things. This is not my business.” She felt a shiver run through her blood. Her scorpion amulet glowed against her skin. “Vortka? Tell me. What is it you are not supposed to know?” He rocked a little on the bath-stool. His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Why did I come here? If it is known I heard words not spoken for my hearing I—” “Vortka!” She wrapped her fingers round his wrist. “The god has sent you, that is why you came. You are its messenger.What has happened ?” They were alone but still he looked in the bath-house’s four empty corners. “Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is dead and the warlord’s son with her. She cut the baby’s throat at birth, then stabbed herself in the heart.” “Why would she do that? Was she demonstruck?” “I do not know, Hekat. I do notwant to know.” Beyond the bath-house walls the sounds of warrior carousing filled the ageing night. Hekat felt the air around her turn to syrup. All the muscles on the inside of her body softened, lengthened, a flush of heat rushed across her wet skin. A chiming sounded in her head, it was the god, the god was speaking, telling

her Mijak’s future. Her future. Precious, beautiful, your time is come. Languid, thrumming, she released Vortka’s wrist. “When did this happen?” “Three lowsuns ago.” The night she and the others returned from the wilderness. The night she spoke with Raklion in his palace. “And what of the warlord? Has this made him sick, is the gripe in his godspark instead of his belly?” Vortka shivered. “Raklion warlord is in the godhouse, Hekat. He prays to the god on the scorpion wheel.” “Prays?” she echoed, and leapt out of her tub. “No-one prays on the scorpion wheel, Vortka.” She snatched a towel and scrubbed away the soap and water. “It is an instrument of punishment, it is for the vilest sinners in the god’s eye! The lowest slave in these barracks knows of the godhouse scorpion wheel! How is Raklion bound upon it? He is the warlord, chosen by the god!” “I am only a novice, Hekat, I do not know the nature of Raklion’s sin. I am not meant to knowthis much!” Vortka’s voice was broken, he was nearly undone. “I am wicked to be telling you what I know. But I am afraid. Raklion is tasked by Nagarak himself, I fear for his life.” Roughly Hekat pulled on her clean loincloth and tunic, and belted her snakeblade round her waist. “Nagarak will not destroy the warlord. I will save him, it is the god’s want.” Vortka stood and plucked at her arm. “Hekat, you cannot enter the godhouse. You cannot meddle in Nagarak’s business. If you are discovered . . .” Her godbraids were soaked, and heavy with purpose. “I am the god’s shadow, I dwell in its eye. I glide through the air, hidden from the world. I am safe from your godspeakers, Vortka. Even that Nagarak.” She left distressed Vortka in the bath-house and ran lightly through the darkness, unseen and obedient to the god. Its truth was in her, it had told her its desires. I am coming, Raklion warlord. Precious and beautiful, this is my time. Raklion wept. The god had written so deep in his flesh its words would never vanish. It had written on his bones as though they were clay tablets, and breathed on them like a baking fire. It had read his heart, it knew his remorse. All I want now is to know your desire. Give me your answer, god, show me the path I must tread with my feet. Am I to be the warlord of Mijak? “Raklion!” a sweet voice whispered. “No more weeping. You have soaked the god with your tears of blood, you have wept enough. The god needs your strength, warlord, not your tears.” He forced apart his swollen eyelids. A single torch guttered in the stinking chamber, throwing just enough light to show him who spoke. “Hekat?” he said, his voice a rasp. “Are you here? Or is this a dream born of fever and pain?”

Her scars were golden in the torchlight. “No dream, Raklion. I am sent by the god.” He sighed then, almost moaning, as her fingertips pressed against his brow. There was healing in her, his pain retreated. Or was that only his fevered mind, brought by Nagarak to the brink of breaking? He longed to touch her but he was bound to the wheel. He smiled instead, though it hurt his bitten, swollen lip. “Thank you, knife-dancer. Now you must go. If Nagarak returns . . .” She shrugged. “If he returns he will not see me. Warlord, why are you bound to this scorpion wheel? Why are you beaten like a common slave?” “To the god all men are slaves, little Hekat. I am here to weep for my sins.” Cold air rattled in and out of his chest. “How long has it been, Hekat? How long have I been bound here? Do you know?” “I am told three highsuns.” Three highsuns of weeping in this windowless chamber. No food, scant water. Three highsuns of screaming his sorrow to the god. No wonder his throat was raw. No wonder his wrists and ankles felt cut to the bone. Three highsuns since his son had died. Something in her words disturbed him. After a moment, he knew what it was. “Told? Who told you?” “The god told me, Raklion.” Her tone said he should have known that without asking. “It tells me many things. It tells me things it keeps from Nagarak. He is high godspeaker, he is not the god.” She spoke in riddles, he could not unriddle them. “Please. You must leave me. I do not want you punished for seeking me out.” When Hekat smiled, her scars were forgotten. “Foolish Raklion. How can I be punished? I live for the god.” “I live for it too, yet you see me bound here. I have no son . . .” His voice cracked, and though he thought he had wept himself empty his eyes stung with fresh tears. After three days in this terrible place it was easy to believe his sonless state would never change. “Et-Nogolor’s Daughter is dead, she will never bear me one.” Hekat shrugged. “She was never meant to, warlord.” If he had been free he would have struck her, beautiful Hekat with her wicked tongue. “What would you know of this, it is warlord’s business! You are nothing, a runaway slave. The Daughter was my future, she was the future of Et-Raklion. Her blood was pure, she was the child of warlords. What do you know, a runaway slave from the savage north?” Hekat smiled again. His words had not hurt her. “I know all the things the god has told me.” “The god does not speak to runaway slaves!” She stood before him, lithe and strong and clothed in pride. “I am not a runaway slave. I am Hekat, knife-dancer of Et-Raklion, slayer of Bajadek, precious to the god.”

“How are you precious?” he demanded, the pain in his heart burning hotter than in his flesh. “Why are you precious? You have a wicked tongue, you do not seem precious to me!” She leaned so close her breath caressed his skin. Her blue eyes were depthless, he fell into them unresisting. “I will be precious to you, as I am to the god,” she whispered. “The god desires I bear you a son.” CHAPTER TWENTY Raklion stared at Hekat dumbly, struck beyond words. “I am meant for you. I will be yours. It is my purpose, warlord,” she added, frowning at his disbelief. “It is why I came to Et-Raklion, why you saw me, why the god saved me from Abajai and Yagji. You must know this. The god has told you, if only in dreams. It is why you desire me. Why your eyes eat me whenever we meet. I will be a great warlord’s mother. The god had told me this, so it will be.” He rolled his head on the iron scorpion wheel. “No, Hekat. You are mistaken. Only a woman of warlord bloodlines is fit to birth a warlord’s son.” “Tcha!” she said, and bared her teeth. “If that was true your son plowed in the Daughter’s field would be living, and all the sons you plowed before that.I am meant to birth the next warlord. Would you desire me if this was not so?” She was a temptress, he must not listen. “I never said I desired you.” She laughed at him. “Do I have eyes? Has the god struck me blind? You desire me, Raklion. It is the god’s want. That is why I am precious and beautiful.” Snared in the extremities of physical distress, still he felt a throb in his blood. He wanted her naked, he wanted her lush. He wanted her long legs wrapped around him. “And what of your wants, Hekat knife-dancer?” His voice was thickened, and slurred with many things. “Do you desire me?” “I desire the god’s desire,” she said, her face a shadow among the shadows. “Whatever the god wants, I want it also.” His eyelids were heavy, he could not stop them closing. In the fresh darkness he breathed in and breathed out and tried to fathom the god’s true purpose. Tried to imagine what Nagarak would say, the warlord taking a warrior to wife. His eyes flew open. “The god talks to men with the tongues of its godspeakers. No godspeaker has talked to me of you. How can this be the god’s true desire?” “Godspeakers are also men,” said Hekat. Her eyes in the torchlight were flat with contempt. “Men are imperfect. Men are swayed from the god’s desires by petty wantings of their own.This is known too, Raklion warlord. We saw the god strike down a lying godspeaker, you and I. Do not doubt what the god does in this place. Could I stand with you in the heart of its godhouse if I was not precious in its eye?” Could she? He would not have said so. Et-Raklion’s godhouse was teeming with godspeakers, they

were everywhere underfoot. How could she stand here with him if not by the god’s want? The god desires I bear you a son. She rested her hand on his naked shoulder. If there was pity in her for his sufferings he could not see it in her face. She was still, remote, some sacred thing housed in flawed human flesh. “Raklion warlord, you are bound to the scorpion wheel. For three hard highsuns you have wept to the god and bled your sins from your heart and bones. You are cleansed now, it is time to rise. Et-Raklion needs you for the dark days ahead.” Dark days. She sounded so certain. “What do you know of Et-Raklion’s future?” he demanded. “What has the god told you, Hekat?” Her eyes drifted closed. “It tells me Mijak will be reborn in blood and fire. It will rise to greatness in the world. You must not fear, you are Raklion warlord, seen and chosen by the god. You will be Mijak’s warlord, the god has told me.” Her words struck him so hard he felt his heart stop beating. Before he could speak again the tasking chamber door pushed open and Nagarak entered. He did not see Hekat or sense her presence. She was blind to him in the god’s hiding eye. She pressed a finger to her lips, desiring silence. Raklion said nothing, he was obedient. She knows the secret of my heart. How could she know this and not be from the god? “Warlord,” said Nagarak, halting before the scorpion wheel. “The god has heard you weeping, it has seen you in its smiting eye. Your sins are purged. Return to your life outside this godhouse and serve the god in its desires.” Raklion swallowed hot, relieved tears. As Nagarak released him from the scorpion wheel, as he cut the blood-slicked leather thongs at ankle and wrist, Raklion said, “Do you go now to the scorpion pit?” Nagarak nodded. “Yes. I go to ask the god’s desire. I go to ask if you must rule all Mijak as its warlord. If I am to be its one true godspeaker.” Raklion’s gaze slipped sideways to rest on Hekat’s secret, watchful face. He could see her smiling, he could hear her breathing, but Nagarak was deaf and blind. To Nagarak, they were alone. The god has sent her. She is sent by the god. She has already answered Nagarak’s question. “The god will not smite you in the scorpion pit, Nagarak,” Raklion said. “It will tell you I am to be warlord of Mijak.” Nagarak frowned. “You cannot say so, warlord. I am high godspeaker, I cannot say it. No man can know the god’s desire before the god tells a godspeaker in its time.” So Nagarak said. But there in the shadows stood the knife-dancer Hekat, and she had said a different thing. She stood in the shadows and Nagarak did not see her. Who do I believe now? Who knows the god best, Hekat or Nagarak?

“Come with me, Raklion,” said Nagarak. “I will heal you before I go to the pit.” It was a terrible thing, to slide free of the scorpion wheel. Raklion heard his pained breath sobbing, he felt his head swim and his knees buckle after so long spent suffering for his sins. Nagarak’s smiting arm slipped round his shoulders, Nagarak’s strength kept him from falling. “When I beat you,” said Nagarak, “I was obeying the god. I took no pleasure from your weeping.” Nagarak, expressing regret? For a moment Raklion thought he must be fever-dreaming, that Hekat did not stand close by and unseen in the shadows, that he remained bound to the scorpion wheel awaiting further sorrow. Nagarak said, “If I must die in the scorpion pit I would not have any misunderstandings left behind me.” Raklion shifted a little, and took more weight upon his feet. He was desperate to lie down. “The smiting hand was not yours, Nagarak, it was the god’s. You were its instrument, I understand. And you willnot die in the scorpion pit.” This time Nagarak did not chide him. “That is my desire, I confess it freely.” He cleared his throat. “But a man’s desires are nothing to the god. Its desires are not the desires of men.” Raklion looked at watching Hekat. “I believe the god desires peace in Mijak. I believe it desires an end to strife, to squabbling warlords, to untrue godspeakers. I believe it will tell you this in its scorpions’ whispers. Now, heal me I beg you, Nagarak high godspeaker, and let that be an end to my sorrow.” As Nagarak helped him from the chamber he resisted the urge to turn back to Hekat. The god had seen her into this place, it would see her safely out again. If it did not, her words were lies and she would be justly punished. But if she does not lie . . . if Nagarak is spared in the scorpion pit and tells me in his own words what Hekat has told me, these terrible three highsuns will be as labor. I will birth a Mijak made new. Hekat left the godhouse as she had entered it, deep in the god’s eye, invisible to mortal men. Vortka waited for her on the Pinnacle Road, chilled in the deep cold that came before newsun. “Tchut tchut, Vortka! What do youdo here?” she whispered, as he took her hands in his. Voices carried on the cool night air. “This is the quiet time, the godmoon should not see you!” His fingers released her, and folded into his sleeves. His teeth were chattering. “I wanted to be sure you were unseen and unharmed.” “I am both, Vortka. The god hides me in its eye,” she said, impatient. “It does not hide you, you will be seen. You will be smitten. I have witnessed what the godspeakers do to men who break the quiet time. You arestupid , go away!” His solemn face broke into a smile. “You are worried for me.” It was one thing to call him friend in the silence of her mind. That did not mean she meant to shout it from her tongue, or wished to see him smile like that or say out loud things best left unspoken.

“Tcha! Who wastes worry on stupid rocks?” His smile faded. “Did you see the warlord?” “Yes, I saw him. I told him what the god wants, he will do it. He has no choice, and neither do I. What the god desires the god must receive.” Vortka nodded. “It desires you to lie with the warlord. It desires you to bear him a son. Raklion will become the warlord of Mijak and the son you bear will follow him to glory.” Astonished, Hekat felt her mouth fall open. Then she stepped close to Vortka, her snakeblade in hand, and pricked its sharp tip into his throat. “How do you know this?” He did not push her hand away. “Aieee, Hekat. How do you think? I asked the god for answers, the god revealed its plan to me.” “The god, or a demon seeking mischief in the world?” “A demon cannot know the god’s secret heart.” Still she kept her snakeblade to his throat. “Aman cannot know its secret heart, Vortka!” “A godtouched man knows whatever the god desires it to know,” said Vortka. “I too am godtouched, Hekat, do you seek to deny it? Do you seek to thwart the god from jealousy or spite?” Jealousy? Spite? How dare he say so! She snatched back her snakeblade and slapped his face. “I think you are jealous,” she hissed. “I can stand before Nagarak, he does not see me. Nagarak will always see you. You mustask the god to tell you its desires, the god comes to me unbidden, Inever ask and still I know what it wants.” “You think that matters to the god?” said Vortka, scornful. “The god cares only that we serve. I am its instrument, Hekat, no less than you. Accept it, or the god will smite you.” That was true. She sheathed her snakeblade. “You are its instrument, Vortka, I accept it, but I must be careful. No man is perfect. All men are weak.” “I am not a man,” said Vortka, touching his face where her hand had struck him. “I am a godspeaker.” “Tcha!” she scoffed. “You were a manbefore you were a godspeaker. Little more than a boy. Sold to slavery for being unwanted.” “And you were a girl sold for the same reason,” he said, glaring. “That is the past, it does not matter. Now I breathe for the god, Hekat. I will not betray you, I will never hurt you. You need not guard yourself fromme . Why do you attack me? I thought we were friends. I thought you trusted me.” “I can trust no-one,” she told him coldly. “I am precious and godtouched, I can have no friends.” His face twisted with anger. “You ungrateful brat! I have kept your bloodsoaked secrets and told lies for your sake in the godhouse. I come to you when the god’s will moves me and I tell you things it wants you to know. Things it doesnot whisper unasked in your heart. Even though I am put in danger, even though I

would be tasked to mindless screaming if any godspeaker was to learn what I did. You are a stunted woman, Hekat. You have a mean spirit. That is your sorrow, it is not mine. Deny our friendship, I cannot stop you. But I am equal to you in the god’s eye and youwill respect that.” She felt a pricking, a sting of discomfort. There was water standing in Vortka’s eyes. Scuffing her sandaled toe in the dirt she muttered, “I said I accepted you are the god’s instrument. Did I not say I accepted that? There is no need to sharpen your tongue on me. You are not so precious you can sharpen your tongue on me.” “Is that so?” he said, and turned away. She let him walk five paces, then called, “Wait! Vortka, wait!” He stopped, but did not turn back. “What?” Mindful of their voices carrying, she took four paces to be near him again. “Nagarak prepares for the scorpion pit. He will ask the god if it wants Raklion as Mijak’s warlord. You must be there to witness the god’s answer. Whoever witnesses Nagarak’s testing, those godspeakers will be seen by him as special. Soon enough Nagarak will be my enemy. He will work against me. You must workfor me, in the godhouse. You must trust me in this, I speak the truth.” It showed in his face that he did not want to trust her, his feelings were hurt. He was stupid,stupid . What were his feelings, compared to the god? “Vortka,” she said, and took his robe in her fist. “This is what the god wants. You cannot refuse.” He plucked her fingers free, turned on his heel and stalked away up the Pinnacle Road. She watched until the darkness swallowed him, until he was a memory in her eye. Around her neck the scorpion dangled, and it was hot with the god’s displeasure. He is my instrument, you handled him roughly. So said the god to her, deep in her heart. Bathed in the godmoon’s thin light she dropped to her knees, bruising them on stones scattered in the road. Her snakeblade glinted, it thirsted for her blood. If she refused its spilling, demons would take her. The power in her scorpion amulet would drain away, leaving her empty. I did not mean to disrespect you, god. I did not mean to disrespect your instrument. She pulled down her linen tunic, exposing her left breast to the night. Her snakeblade bit keenly. Dark blood welled. Pain rose like a hot wind from The Anvil, scouring away sin. Three times her blade bit, and after that the god was slaked. The fresh wounds healed, no need for a godstone. It was the god who healed her, who sealed her flesh. I am Hekat, beautiful and precious. Chosen. Godtouched. Filled with the god. How could Nagarak stand against her? How could any man stand against her? Though her wounds were healed, wet blood still stained her skin. She dragged her fingers through it and

touched them to the scorpion amulet. The stone pulsed and flared into life. She laughed to feel it, the god throbbing in her bones. Its presence soothed her, eased the prickly hurt of harsh words with Vortka. I am Hekat, precious and beautiful. The god loves me, I will give it the world. Et-Raklion godhouse’s scorpion chamber had four bare walls, a bare ceiling, and a pit in the center of its stone floor. It had an altar at one end, but that was all. No lavish decoration was needed here, no godposts, no friezes, no mosaics, no elaborately wrought torch-holders. The god was here, and that was enough. Kneeling naked before the altar, even his scorpion pectoral discarded, Nagarak felt the god’s presence slide across his skin. Cool, caressing, but with a hint of heat and venom in it. Promise of the testing to come. He spilled no blood upon the altar. No sacrifice was needed for this ritual. He was the sacrifice, the sacred offering. In the pit behind him, fat godhouse scorpions skittered and hissed. It was full of them, more scorpions than any high godspeaker had faced in the godhouse’s ancient history. How could it be otherwise, when such a question trembled on his tongue? Must Raklion be Mijak’s one warlord? Must I be its one true high godspeaker? There was a chance he would die in this sacred place. That the god, offended, would sting him to a screaming death. Raklion warlord had outlived two high godspeakers already. Would today’s testing see a third outlived? He did not know. He could not tell. His godsense failed him, he saw no further into the future than the taking of his next breath. That had never happened before. Was it an ill omen? It was something else he could not tell. He waited with an empty mind for the witnesses to come. He knew not which three godspeakers the god would send, to be seen in its eye recording the question and the answer. That was the god’s business, no part of him. A godbell tolled, its sweet tones muffled by stone walls and distance. Outside the godhouse the sun was rising, chasing the godmoon and his wife below the horizon. The scorpion room contained no windows, he could not see the sunlight kiss the top of Raklion’s Pinnacle, strike fire from the godpost as though the god’s scorpion eyes were open. He felt a small regret for that. This was his favorite time of day. Sandals shuffled in the corridor outside. Three pairs, slow and steady. Unhurried, with the grace and dignity expected of a high godspeaker, he rose to his feet and turned to greet the god’s chosen witnesses. “The god sees you in its eye, my sister, my brothers.” It had selected Saskira, a healer, the taskmaster Bendik and one of the novices. Vortka, yes, that was his name. A pious youth, this Vortka, oft found in the tasking house repenting his sins. A godspeaker of uncommon powers and quiet devotion, so the novice-master said. “The god sees you also, Nagarak,” they murmured. At all other times, in all other places, every godspeaker in the godhouse was subordinate to him. Only

here, in the scorpion chamber, was he the supplicant and they his masters. “Kneel to the god, Nagarak,” said Saskira healer. “Be anointed, bare your godspark to its all-seeing eye. The scorpions await you, they are hungry to test your heart.” Vortka novice was first to paint his high godspeaker’s body with the blood and oil, carried with him in a sacred stone jar. His dripping fingers were cool and confident, he knew precisely where and how to mark his high godspeaker’s skin. When the anointing was done he smeared his own face, from brow to chin and eye to eye. “Here is a sacred place, a silent place, a place of communing with the god,” he said. “I will see the god here. It will whisper in my heart. Its mysteries will be revealed to my eye. May the god grind my flesh to dust and feed my godspark to demons if I reveal by thought, word or deed what is shown to me in this place.” “The god sees, the god hears, the god will grind you into dust,” murmured the others. Twice more the ritual was performed, with bloodied oil upon the face and fervent words falling from the tongue. Nagarak waited, silent, patient, as the witnesses swore their oaths of discretion. When they were done, it was his turn. “Here is a sacred place, a silent place, a place of communing with the god,” he said. The oil and blood burned his naked flesh. “I have a question, the question is this. What does the god demand of Raklion warlord and his high godspeaker Nagarak?” “A question is asked, the god will answer,” intoned the witnesses. “Surrender flesh, abandon hope. The god sees you, seeker. It sees you in its eye.” The scorpions rattled and scraped in the pit. They hissed, tails raised, as Nagarak slid into their midst. Their heaving bodies closed over his head, he was swimming in scorpions, drowning in scorpions. He was a scorpion, inhaled by the god. Time ended, suspended. Stung and stung, he screamed in torment. His blood turned to venom. His heart pumped pain. In his mind, the god’s voice thundered. One warlord for Mijak. One high godspeaker to guide him. There was its answer and its desire. Raklion warlord had heard the god right. Seven warlords no longer. No Mijak divided. One Mijak. One warlord. One godspeaker, to lead him. The god had answered. He would live. On a shout of triumph Nagarak surged to his feet. Scorpions fell from his flesh like scales from a snake. The pit was filled with dead and dying scorpions but he breathed, he lived, the god had answered him and spared his life. “Tell us,” the witnesses demanded. “The god desires a united Mijak,” he said, his voice ringing. “One nation, one warlord, one sacred altar beneath the sun.”

He could not say why but it was the novice, Vortka, he looked to first. As Bendik and Saskira stared, eyes wide, pulses beating fast in their throats, the novice incompletely hid a smile. He was not surprised. He showed no alarm. No sweat beaded upon his brow. Before Nagarak could wonder at that he began to shake like a man with fever. Saskira healer leapt forward and seized his arms. He was swiftly drawn from the scorpion pit and laid upon the cold stone floor. His body heaved and thrashed, he voided venom from bowel and bladder, from mouth and eyes and even his ears. Empty of poison, filled with the god, he let the godhouse healer mend him. One warlord for Mijak. One high godspeaker to guide him. When Saskira was done and he could stand unaided, he thanked the witnesses for their service, swore them to solemn secrecy, and departed from them for his private bath. There he cleansed his body, soaping and scrubbing until all traces of filth were removed. His skin was welted with fresh scorpion scars. He counted hundreds, he was lumped like a lizard, like some survivor of a terrible plague, the kind that had in the distant past ravaged the nation, plundered its populace, reduced the fat empire of Mijak to bones. The welts did not worry him. They were gifts from the god. Thumbprints of favor. He thought no other godspeaker living or dead had ever borne so many sting-marks. It was fitting. I am to be godspeaker of a nation. Cleansed, he strapped himself into his scorpion pectoral and draped his limbs in linen and wool. He alerted Peklia, godspeaker in charge of the sacrifices, and at the godhouse’s largest altar he gave a black bull-calf, twelve black lambs and one hundred golden cockerels to the god. Blood ran like a river. The novice holding the basin of water, afterwards, was the same Vortka who’d witnessed in the scorpion room. Sluicing the sacred blood from his hands, Nagarak said, “You desire something from me, novice?” The novice shook his head. Beads rattled. Godbells chimed. “No, high godspeaker. I desire only to serve.” “I see that you do serve. I see the god calls you to important matters.” The novice Vortka stared at the floor. “I am the god’s instrument. It uses me as it desires.” On the surface, it was a humble answer. On the surface, Vortka novice was a humble man. And yet . . . in the scorpion chamber . . . Vortka novice had smiled. “See to the disposal of the sacrificed beasts,” he said, abruptly unsettled. Angry, because of it. “And clean the altar by yourself. A novice called to witness in the scorpion chamber is still a novice. Until you are seen by the god in the time of testing you are not more than flesh, you are yet unproven. Give me your sleeve, I would dry my hands.” Obedient, the novice presented his sleeve. Nagarak used him, turned his back to him, and called for another novice to be sent to the palace, that the warlord might be summoned to his high godspeaker’s presence.

Raklion must hear of the god’s desire. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Awarlord who neglected his warriors had no business calling himself a warlord. No matter his trials, no matter his private pains, a warlord must always place his warhost first. Raklion thought this as he stood alone on the warhost field and watched his beautiful warriors dancing around him. Weary from his ordeal on the scorpion wheel, the loss of another son a bleeding wound in his heart, still he smiled to see his knife-dancers’ grace and oiled muscles, the sunlight glinting on their snakeblades. Trained to perfection they flowed like water, like blood spilled in sacrifice for the god. He watched Hekat dancing, and let his loins burn. I am meant for you. I will be yours. So she had told him, and so he believed. How could he not? She had come to him in the godhouse, unseen in Nagarak’s eye. As she danced with her knife-brothers and sisters, Hanochek joined him unbidden on the short grass. “A slave has come from the palace, warlord. Nagarak would see you in the godhouse, at once.” Nagarak. So the high godspeaker had emerged unscathed from the scorpion pit. The god had spared him, and given him an answer. I know already what it is. Hekat has told me. I am to be warlord of Mijak. The god does not only speak through Nagarak. It changed everything. With his gaze still resting on dancing Hekat he said to Hano, “Send that slave to the godhouse with this message: Raklion warlord is about the god’s business. Nagarak high godspeaker is welcome to join him in the barracks, where he will see how warriors worship.” Hano gasped. “Warlord?” Now he turned his head. “You heard me, warleader. That is my message. See it is sent.” “Warlord . . .” Hano swallowed. “Raklion. Are you certain? I don’t want you condemned to three more days on the scorpion wheel.” Aieee, his good friend Hano worried over him like a hen with one chick. “More than certain,” he said, smiling. “Do not fret or fear the high godspeaker’s wrath. He is only a man. He serves the god, as we serve the god. We all have power, Hano. The god sees every man in its eye.” Hano nodded reluctantly, unconvinced but obedient. “Warlord.” The slave was sent up to the godhouse. By the time Nagarak arrived at the barracks the knife-dancers had given way to archers on horseback. Raklion sighed with pleasure to see them weaving so neatly past

and around each other, the horses’ hides gleaming, his warriors’ godbraids singing under the sun. Their godbells shouted praises to the god, and so did he in his heart. I survived the scorpion wheel. I will be Raklion, warlord of Mijak. My son will follow me, as beautiful as Hekat. The god is great, it will see me great also. Hano joined him again, eyes wide with trepidation. “Warlord, Nagarak high godspeaker approaches the barracks gates.” “Go to him,” he said. “Bring him to me with all gratitude and respect.” Hano shook his head. “Raklion, I am lost for words. We speak ofNagarak . The god sits on his shoulder, it whispers daily in his ear. Why would you anger him? Why tempt him to smite you?” “He will not smite me, Hano. Never again.” “He is the high godspeaker!” said Hano, disbelieving. “He was born for smiting!” Raklion rested his hand on Hanochek’s shoulder. “And I am the warlord. I am in the god’s eye. I tell you truly, he will not smite me.” Hano sighed, conflicted and anxious. “You are different, Raklion. You have returned from the godhouse a changed man.” Was he so fearful before? So unsure of his power?Perhaps I was. Perhaps the deaths of all those sons shrank me, diminished me, made me small. But I am brave now. I will be Mijak’s warlord, with Hekat in my bed . “I am not different. I am myself,” he told Hano. “Go now and fetch Nagarak.” “Yes, warlord,” said Hano, helpless, and obeyed. In keeping with the god’s decree that even the most revered godspeaker must walk whenever possible, Nagarak came to the warhost field on foot. He wore fine linen and wool over his scorpion pectoral, but the fabrics were splashed and stained with sacrificial blood. It was strange, watching him approach, knowing that this man knew him to the bone. Knew him weeping, knew him screaming, knew him abject in his pain. And yet I no longer fear him. He does not shame me, I feel no need to cringe. I look on him and feel nothing beyond what I should feel for any man who serves the god. Truly god, I am changed. You have changed me. As Nagarak came closer it was clear he was changed, too. The skin of his face was welted beyond any godspeaker’s ever seen. All his flesh not covered with fabric was blotched with the mark of scorpion stings. Raklion marveled. It was a thing of wonder, that his high godspeaker had survived the pit. “Warlord,” said Nagarak. The word vibrated with his displeasure.

“Nagarak. The god sees you in its eye. You have an answer?” For a moment Nagarak did not reply. Clearly he expected some abasement, some recognition of this breach in their accustomed roles. Nagarak summoned, Raklion appeared, that was the way of things. Beneath the anger he seemed almost bewildered, that he was standing on the warhost field and not in his godhouse. “I have an answer,” he said at last. “But I will not give it here or now. This is no fit place to talk of the god’s secret purpose.” Raklion shifted his gaze to his still-weaving archers. So trained were they, so attuned to his orders, not even the appearance of Nagarak before them could interrupt theirhotas . “The god is everywhere,” he said mildly. “So everywhere must be a fit place to speak. Shall you tell me its answer? Or shall I tell you? I am to be the warlord of Mijak. I am to tame this nation to my fist.” Nagarak’s face spasmed in a scowl. “Beware, warlord. I drank deep of the scorpions’ venom, the scorpions died and yet I live. This is known as a sign.” “I see it, Nagarak. You are my high godspeaker, I deny you nothing.” “You deny me the courtesy of answering my summons!” “I wished you to witness my obedien